


Rose and White Dawn

by angelwarm



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Biblical References, Charles Baudelaire - Freeform, F/M, Fleurs du mal, Flowers, Français | French, Friends to Lovers, Gardenias, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jewelry, London, M/M, Paris (City), Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pressed Juice Shop AU, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3758050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelwarm/pseuds/angelwarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not about being scared. It’s about being reasonable, doing the right thing. Eventually Louis would do something to Harry he couldn’t fix, and the thought of that boy breaking beneath him is too much to—it’s not fair. It’s not fair to Harry. He should be able to love someone that can love him back, no questions asked. Easy, easy, easy.</p><p>Louis can’t love properly anymore. He doesn’t know how.</p><p>He just knows how to take, how to run. How to stain a body black with his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rose and White Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wondrawall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wondrawall/gifts).



> thank you for the incredible prompts. i hope this is at least a fraction of what you wanted.
> 
> various translations referenced of "l'aube spirituelle" found here: http://fleursdumal.org/poem/141  
> please mind the warnings/tags -

* * *

 

For months only travelers and the dead 

touching you. In hotel rooms higher

  
than a summer suicide—laced with sugars

 and sweat, the steps from the interior

  
to the ledge. An address book, a book of names,

 someone's life laid open in bed.

  
So when he spoke to you

 your hair grew a shade darker

  
and his voice felt cooler 

than the pavement outside—

  
where a child lost his only possession, 

a balloon deflating through his ribs.

  
How brief, how brilliant

 the minutes felt in their unkindness.

  
And you chose to be touched 

instead of touching down.

 

 _Refusing the Ledge,_ Alex Dimitrov

 

* * *

 

 

 

The sun swipes over the tops of St. Germain, a gentle thumb, a yellow-white through the blue pastel curtains and Louis’ thin eyelids. It’s morning, now. It’s morning and that means it’s time to go.

Louis blinks up at the ceiling, the hang-nail at last drawing blood from where he’s picked it for the past hour. There’s a stripe of the outside on his wall. When he remembers this morning, he will only think of the yellow-white glow that coated everything, the yellow flowers in the pot on the balcony.

Like the gold encased iron-wrought gates of Paris, and the palace at Versailles, and the way the statues looked like gilt-wrapped candies against the grey sky.

They used to catch the light, and so did he and Arnaud when they stood in front of them, in love in Paris and there was something beautiful to that at the beginning.

He inspects his thumb. The blood has filled the rim of his cuticle and stretched beneath the front of his nail, eclipsed in red. Sitting up carefully, he swings his legs over the bed, and sucks the blood into his mouth. When he pulls it away, the light is sticking its fingers in, more persistent, and if Louis doesn’t do it now, he’s never going to.

With his finger still bleeding, although less, Louis pulls a pair of socks on. The room that’s kept them together, so small, and everything blue because that’s Arnaud’s favorite color, now itches alive. Louis sees the corner of the desk where he fell and hit the side of his head. The carpet that has a missing patch.

The bedside table carries the weight of their portrait, painted by an artist at the Tour Eiffel, the first week Louis had moved there and Arnaud hadn’t complained once about doing the typical Parisian tourist-stops.

Louis shakes his head of it. He focuses on the bare windowsill, the light now coming in whether or not Louis wants it, and that’s how everything has been, hasn’t it?

There is no sound outside. The smell of fresh-baked baguettes lilts slowly upwards as Louis pulls the curtains apart and opens the window, like any other morning. His gut gives one lurch—which he allows, his eyes pinched tight in a grimace.

He inhales the sweet, heady smell of it, the strange roundness of a dirty city’s scent. Then Louis glances at the door to the bedroom, just barely open. His hands drop from the window.

When he pads softly into the living room, Arnaud is asleep there in a chair, his blonde-dusted hair fallen only partially into his face. He always looked the youngest when he slept, the forked vein in his forehead a bit swollen from drinking and passing out there in the giant green chair. They bought it at an antique shop. Afterwards they got ice cream even though Arnaud told him no one got ice cream in Paris and it was stupid.

Louis relents for one more second—tries to remember when they both fell asleep in that chair, Louis folded into him—but the memory is distorted, and the moment is too delicate, because now the light is catching on Arnaud’s bare chest.

Without thinking, or refusing to, Louis walks as quietly as he can back into their bedroom. The plant on his desk stays still, even when Louis uproots it to retrieve the wad of money he’s been keeping there for the past four months.

He kissed a fat leaf in gratitude. It’s the only life he’ll be leaving behind.

The pre-packed backpack sits in the corner, only containing a baby-blue sweater Louis picked up in the Marais and the camera he brought with him from Doncaster. The rest is Arnaud’s, really, and Louis wants him to think he’ll be back in the afternoon anyway.

Louis slips his scuffed keds on. Arnaud should be up within the hour; so he walks back into the living room and takes the bottle of whisky out from between Arnaud’s arms. His breath catches in his throat, thick, and he coughs a little, waking to look up at Louis like he always does. His brown eyes are black in the light.

“What time is’t,” Arnaud groans, eyelashes long and fluttering as anything.

“Not yet five,” Louis smiles, empty, but it’s no difference.

Arnaud smiles back, very small, “I’m sorry for last night, mon chou. You know how—” he gestures with a lazy hand, an inhale and a yawn through, “—how I get after much wine, like that.” He’s covered in yellow, the English not coming easy enough.

He looks sweaty, and disgusting, a red line on his face from being smashed against the felt of the chair. It’s then that Louis has never hated, never loved anyone more in his life.

“It’s fine,” Louis replies, flat. Then, “Ça va.” He tucks a tuft of brown hair behind Arnaud’s ear, sadness welling like a bruise beneath his skin, and Arnaud smiles again at it, the private one Louis only gets to see in the light that turns everything soft. “J'irai au travail tôt ce matin. Emmanuel m'a dit qu'il a brûlé le pain aux olives pour aujourd’hui."

“Salaud,” Arnaud laughs lightly. “Il a fait la même hier.”

“Ouais,” Louis agrees, his eyes watering, “sais pas pourquoi il travaille encore là.”

“Ça va, cher, sors. Je vais te voire bientôt.” Arnaud’s eyelids slide shut, and Louis can almost hear it, the bomb dropping, the ripping apart of all the books he isn’t taking with and the phone calls that won’t connect. The sound of a thousand messages he won’t receive.

Louis swallows. “Bien sûr, je vais te voire bientôt.”

The rest comes easy.

He places the bottle in their recycling bin and opens the fridge to see what’s left inside of it. There’s nothing there he would really eat, except for the pastry Arnaud brought home last night to serve as this morning’s apology, so Louis throws it in the bin. It’s not out of spite. He just doesn’t want anything left of him.

The bathroom he cleaned out yesterday; but for good measure, he stops in to flick on the light and see the color of his eye’s bruise today. It looks better, greener, still a bit purple, still a bit swollen from the love-slathered knuckles of his partner.

Louis touches the side of his neck, another more innocuous bruise that is large enough to be a birthmark. He doesn’t think about Friday night or why he decided it had to be today. Instead, he shuts off the light and heads to the bedroom.

There are people beginning to come to the bakery below for their pain quotidien. His heart feels thick and heavy, as if diseased. Unsure of his time, but determined, Louis opens his desk drawer to filter through his spare coins and grab 1.10 worth for a baguette. That’s it, then.

He pockets the coins and leaves his key on the desk. Backpack, money, coins, phone, coins, backpack, money, and—he remembers suddenly—quickly crosses to the bookcase and pries _Fleurs du Mal_ off the shelf. He slips it gently into his backpack.

Louis waves goodbye to the room, the curtains, the walls, his own blue period.

Arnaud is in a different position on the chair, snoring softly. Louis waves goodbye to his back; time catches up to him in that second. He cuts away from the scene, reeling from a fist that didn’t come this time. The door opens with a creak and closes behind him with no sound. _That’s how it should be_ , he thinks, _it should be quiet now_.

His limbs move against him, every part of him prickling, the skin screaming to go back because a life without Arnaud doesn’t exist—Arnaud will always be there, he might even find him in a few days, and then there won’t be any quiet to hold onto. Unless—

Louis sucks in a breath and pushes out the front door of the building. He’s dead either way. Whether Arnaud beats him bloody in Paris or in London.

The usual customers are in line at the bakery, Chez Germain, when Louis joins. He bites his nail down to a stub waiting for it to clear. A mother in a bright orange coat holds her daughter’s hand with the promise of a viennoise au chocolat and Louis’ eyes soften.

Marie, who works behind the counter, greets him with a wary look and a “Ça va?”

Louis smiles against it, chest spread thin with his love for her and her green eyes, her plain round face, her pale brown hair.

He hears himself say “une tradition” instead of answering her and the dimple in her cheek laced with some worry won’t leave but Louis can’t think about that, there’s no time, if he calls a cab he can make it to Gare du Nord faster than hopping on the M4, and it’s like before this moment the day still seemed to move in the languid way which Paris allows but it’s starting to set his skin on fire.

She hands him the baguette, asks again, “Cher, ça va?” The air stills. He forgot about his purpled eye but he doesn’t have a spare second to explain, not even for her.

Louis winks, “Oui, bien sûr! Mais je dois sortir, je sois plus tard.”

This seems to work.

“Oh,” and she smiles, “okay, salut mon petit, merci, à demain,” and it’s lighter, their goodbyes, the pleasantries; her smile stays on her face as a thin wrinkle. He considers it a comfort. It is, strangely, more difficult to leave her. He can’t bring himself to say he’ll see her tomorrow. On the way out, he throws his phone in the trash.

It seems a sweep of good fortune that St. Germain offers him two open taxis to choose from. He enters one on the right side, closing the door shut tightly, huffing out a “Gare du Nord, s’il vous-plaît.”

“D’accord.”

Louis meets his eyes in the mirror. His eyebrows are black, thick, the same deep black as the hair slicked back over his head. The classical music station plays. Louis glances at the clock. It’s just past 7h in the morning. Arnaud will be up at 8h25; by then, Louis will be on the train to London.

The driver turns the music down a few notches. When he speaks his voice is unassuming, but confident, “Voyagez-vous à où?”

There’s no reason to, but Louis lies, “En Italie.”

“Mais où en Italie?”

Louis looks out the window. He wanted to spend the next ten minutes wishing the best for every scene that passed by him; but it figures he would leave Paris as he entered it, talking with a chatty cab driver.

“À Naples,” Louis rasps. A spot beneath his skin itches. He bites off the top of the baguette, sighing at how the bread cracks, at its familiar salt.

“Oh, c'est vraiment bon. J'ai de famille à Naples.”

“Vraiment?”

“Ouais, ouais. Je crois qu'il fera très chaud, là.” No shit, Louis thinks.

“Ouais je crois la même, mais j’aime bien ça—c'est l'été.”

“Oui, c'est l’été."

It’s summer. Louis tries to remember what summer in London is like, but the memory of Arnaud sits on his shoulders, worming his way between the back blades, tapping at the bones underneath so with every sharp turn Louis feels the sting of guilt. He left him. Louis left the only person that ever loved him. The flower field—

His hand flies up to hit the back of the passenger seat. There’s the sick beginnings of bile rising in his throat and the strings of the radio violin are cruel. Paris is cruel.

“Un peu plus vite, s’il vous-plaît,” Louis startles at the sound of his own voice, “je dois prendre un train.”

“D’accord,” the cab driver grunts.

Cruel Paris blurs by, grey sky into beige building into the black dust that can never be scrubbed clean; that’s as much a part of the skin as skin.

 

 

✿

 

 

Louis drifted.

He knows his feet carried him to the ticket station. He recalls the pin on the woman’s blouse, her beautiful berry-rouged lips, her brown eyes. There was a child in line that didn't like the smell of the place.

He blinks. He’s eaten half of his baguette.

There’s a woman next to him in jeans and white Nike’s. _She’s proper European_ , he supposes, and decides to ask the time to cut the dissociation short.

“Excusez-moi, Madame,” he begins. She turns to him, her brown eyes already wide in a pre-planned apology. “Quelle heure est-il?”

“Um,” she smiles, wary, “Je parle ne pas..I don’t speak, um—”

“Me neither,” Louis returns her smile. “Well, I do, but it’s—anyways. Could you tell me what time it is, love?”

“Yes,” she loses some of her fluster. Her brown hair falls in thin curtains, hiding her face as she digs through the backpack at her feet. She’s drinking a bottled orange juice. “It’s 8:52,” she exhales and sits up. Louis again feels sick. _Oh, fuck._

“Thanks,” he replies, clipped. He leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. Fuck.

He imagines Arnaud coming home for lunch, calling for Louis to come outside. He’d offer him the pastry and they’d fight over where to go. They’d end up downstairs at Chez Germain, never too far from the flat because Arnaud doesn’t like the look of anyone anywhere else. They’d come back and they’d fuck and say, “until tonight,” mouths bruised by each other.

Louis scratches his thigh. He opens his eyes and looks at the woman—more a girl—curled into herself and peering out the window at the passing view. He doesn’t know if she’s running but he hopes for it, just for a second.

He pulls _Fleurs du Mal_ out of his backpack, fingers skimming their tips reverently over the front and flipping the pages forward across his thumb. He stops at “L’Aube spirituelle.”

_“Dans la brute assoupie un ange se réveille._

_Des Cieux Spirituels l'inaccessible azur,_

_Pour l'homme terrassé qui rêve encore et souffre”_

Louis presses his hand to his mouth. The tears come before he can stop them, and there’s something pathetic about doing it here, where everyone can see him for what he really is.

He wants to be the rose and white dawn, or the angel, but it doesn’t work like that. Louis doesn’t get to be good. Louis isn’t good.

But the crying is silent, and he’s able to stop it after a few minutes, when he reaches inside the backpack again and pulls the sweater over his head. It smells like—

—rose petal, every yellow-white morning he spent in St. Germain. He remembers the table corner, the carpet patch. He touches his eye. There was no other option.

Friday night’s memory comes to him, a flash, a fist, then a few fists and Arnaud biting at the swell of his neck, forcing in. What does a lover do when it gets violent?—Play along, stay quiet, stay quiet, stay quiet.

Louis swallows it down, another round of tears plucking out between his eyelids, shut tight. He closes his hands into fists until the pressure of the memory relents. When he looks up around the train, no one is looking back at him.

He sleeps, only a little; dreams of the fallen man and the singed flesh of his back where the wings used to be.

 

 

✿

 

 

London’s soft rain picks up. Louis has been standing just outside the door to Liam’s apartment complex. It’s a deep green.

Louis doesn’t know how he thought he would get in; how he’d manage to even contact Liam without a phone. He could wait for the first person to come stumbling out of the door and off to work, but that would only get him past the first door, and he doesn’t remember Liam’s apartment number.

Fuck—it’s likely Arnaud has sent him a text, a check-in, and Louis’ non-response will bother him. His anger will grow all day but then Louis won’t be there to bear the weight of it. For the first time it occurs to him that his body was the only thing standing between Arnaud and the rest of his loved ones.

He doesn’t even remember walking here, or—

London’s soft rain picks up. Louis is standing just outside the door to—

London’s soft rain picks up. Louis is sitting on the curbside with his head in his hands, there’s water from the rain catching in the dip, floating to the sewer, there’s a water neck-high and it smells like rot and it smells like his insides.

London’s soft sky picks up. Louis is sitting on the curb smelling the rot and the rain. Louis is sitting in the rain. London’s soft—London’s grey sky green door green chair—

fists around railings, red red poppies, fingers pried both thighs open and a slap, it was wanted, and sheets soft grey there was rain, it was raining outside it was raining inside—

London’s soft sky peels back like skin, Louis suffocates under each raw, dry thrust each bite that should feel good he should be able to feel good for him but he can’t, he’s always been the weaker of the two, he knows he deserves it when—

 _No, no, no, no_ —London’s here, London’s got his hands in his hair, Louis has his hands in his hair then there’s hands everywhere there’s a hand inside there’s—

“Lou, Louis—mate, Louis,” Liam shakes Louis by the shoulders. “Please, look at me. Lou, what’s happened?”

“I—,” there’s a sound and it’s stuck in his throat, but Louis reels on him, wide-eyed, hands helpless in the air. He can see the fineness of Liam’s eyelashes.

Liam takes hold of his shoulders again, gentle, firm, “Lou, your eye—was it Arnaud? What did he—“

“I left,” Louis feels it burst out from the center of him, one long exhale. “I,” he laughs, he can’t help it, it’s just funny, because he remembers the flowers, there were so many yellow flowers there were so many mornings, “I left the flowers, I left,” an inhale, “I left him, Li, I left.”

A single swell of sadness gets stuck in his throat and a few moments later, Louis crumples into himself, mouth hung open in a sound that hangs on them both. It takes nothing for Liam’s arms to find him.

“It’s okay,” Liam whispers, hands not like the other hands. Louis’ skin feels too sensitive but nothing can be done. His gut kicks in but nothing comes up. Liam chanting “it’s okay” long enough to count for a prayer, one that might save something somewhere, but it’s lost on them.

They stay there on the curb, the rain very light, Liam the only source of warmth, London keeping itself grey, until Louis stops dry-heaving over the sewer and grows quiet.

 

 

✿

 

 

They make it upstairs, the second floor of the apartment complex a concrete Sisyphus’ hill. Liam leans Louis against the door, body like a rag doll, now obvious in its thinness. Liam raps on the door twice. Apartment 205.

Louis hasn’t stopped crying.

The blue door swings open, “Did’ya forget your key or—Li? Alright?”

Liam has one hand propped up against the wall, leaning into the open space. Louis raises his eyes to watch the exchange. The roommate is fixed on his face, Louis knows it’s the black eye, it’s the roughness to his skin. He wants to hide.

It’s not easy to let this take the space it wants, to let the hurt exist openly. It’s easier with Liam but the presence of a stranger makes him feel confined.

“Oh,” the roommate says. “Um, right,” he steps aside at the look in Liam’s eye alone. A white light in the hallway washes his face, so that it looks childlike, lunar. Louis passes him with his eyes at his feet, wipes roughly at the corners where the water has dried into crust.

Liam touches Louis’ elbow, soft. There is a lamp on in the corner. This is the kind of morning that seems like the afternoon, already a bit dark from the rain outside. One large window in the room filters in a view of the city. It casts a white square on the floor which Louis is careful to avoid as Liam sits him at a small, wood table.

“I’ll put a kettle on,” the roommate murmurs. Louis hates the murmurs. He could sink his teeth into that misplaced pity.

Louis flinches. Liam’s thumb has come up to brush the corner of his eye. Louis won’t look at him—then he does, for a second, and it’s a mistake. Liam’s eyes are muddy, watching his own hand move from Louis’ cheek to his neck, running the tips of his fingers over the yellowed mark.

His hand comes to the side of Louis’ face again. “Lou.”

“I know what you’re going t’say,” Louis blurts out, curling his arms around himself at the sound. Liam’s fingers circle his small wrist. “I wasn’t gonna say anything, Lou.”

“Bullshit,” Louis spits. “If you’re gonna say you were right, I’d rather you just get on with it.”

“Louis,” Liam whispers—the roommate pauses in the doorway.

“For God’s sake, Liam, is the whole world fragile all of a sudden? You don’t have to talk to me like that.”

The roommate, head haloed from the kitchen light, pads in with fingers wrapped around the yellow mug handle. Louis strains to look at the bright color of the pottery. The boy, long-limbed, pulls out the chair and it scrapes against the tile and he winces—but it cuts through the room.

“I know,” Liam begins, “I know this must have been difficult, Lou. Leaving.”

Louis drags his eyes up to the roommate, seated somewhat on the outside of their closeness. He’s not sure how much he knows. The boy’s chest rises, heavy, a chestnut curl falling onto his forehead. His eyes, too big for his face, are reassuring. And Louis wants to feel safe again. Above anything else he just wants to know if Arnaud comes looking he will be safe.

“He didn’t meant to, Li,” Louis breathes, finally. He looks between his fingers, picking at the skin, eyes flooded with warm tears. “I know you think he did it on purpose but he didn’t.” He briefly glances up at Liam and shakes his head.

“I know, mate,” Liam rubs his thumb in slow circles. “You don’t have to tell me what happened, if you don’t want to.”

Louis shrugs, mouth tight and eyes drifting off to look out the window. The fog covers everything. He could be in some low level of hell and not even know it.

“Not tonight, Li. I need to—I want to sleep, honestly.”

“Okay, Lou, that’s alright. No rush, okay?” Liam always does this. He says Louis’ name like it’s the last time he’ll get to do so.

“I just,” Louis starts; stops. Liam pauses, halfway through getting out of his seat. “I just keep thinking about how he’s going to come home and see I’m not there. I used to…I’d put the bottles away from the night before, I’d wake him up, I keep thinking, who’s going to do that for him now? He’s alone there.” He’s crying again and it feels pathetic, honestly, so to push the sob back down his throat he pries a thumb against his mouth.

“Good,” the roommate edges, low. Finally, the anger from someone. Louis looks at him, his eyelids smooth, lidded. His nose flares and Louis can tell, can see in his face the way the news affects him even though he’ll never really understand just how hot that love burned, how the whole apartment should have caught fire along with his skin.

Louis understands the anger, he does. He wishes that was all he knew when it came to Arnaud. It would make this easier.

“Harry,” Liam stills—ever patient, touches him, “don’t—”

“S’alright, love,” Louis mutters, “it’s alright.” He nibbles on his thumb nail. He repeats the name to himself, “Harry.” It’s a nice one.

Harry stands, unsure of what to do with his hands but he smiles very small, and it’s as if the air changes to accommodate him, the largeness of his chest, the light behind him casting him some figure from a Baroque painting.

It upends the world. For a moment.

Then the feeling passes with a shiver of nausea, Louis instinctively grimacing and rubbing his hands down his arms. Louis laughs weakly, the past hour a blur of emotions and dramatics he doesn’t want to admit to.

He holds himself, and smiles at Liam, “How about that bed, then?”

Tentatively, Liam approaches him. “You can sleep in my room, yeah?”

Louis presses his lips together, about to argue. Of course Liam would be nothing but selfless, and he knew this, that Liam would never be put out to help Louis, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. He decides not to argue anyways. “Okay,” he says softly.

Liam’s bedroom is nothing like St. Germain. There are no curtains. The black box frame around the window only renders the white outside more eery than in the main room. It’s all off-white and wood, utilitarian in its design. Liam shuffles around behind Louis, who stands at the foot of the neatly-made bed, unhappy with having to disturb it.

When Liam grew into his face, the look of continual wariness about him shifted into a perpetual kindness. Old ladies ask him for help with their groceries. Kids go to him when dogs need saving.

It’s his eyes, the way they are when he smiles. Louis’ always wanted a face as warm but his own eyes seem determined to have a harsh glint, his smile more like a fox and less trustworthy.

“Here’s a change of clothes,” Liam appears to his right. His hand on Louis’ lower back spreads warmth from the bottom of his spine. “And,” Liam says, his hands disappearing in a dresser, only to reappear clutching a stuffed platypus, “here’s Frank, for all your proper sleep purposes.”

“You’re—fucking joking,” Louis groans, jaw slack in surprise. “I thought your mum’d gotten rid of him?”

“Not a chance,” Liam supplies. “Take him for tonight.”

“Li, I couldn’t.” He swallows, a film of fresh tears blurring the sight of Liam’s small, characteristic smile.

“Yes, you could. He’s the only way I get to sleep sometimes. When the nightmares are bad. I’ll be right in the next room, alright?”

“Liam,” Louis calls. He hesitates. “Em, what about work?”

“It’s nothing, Lou,” Liam pauses by the door. “They know I’d move the world for you.”

 

 

✿ ✿

 

 

The door closes, much too soft. Liam’s face pulls tight around the mouth, and he meets Harry’s eye before he pulls out a chair, its legs again sending a metal-scrape shrill through the room, and sits. Harry takes a breath, fingers fiddling with the corner of the table.

“It’s not my business,” he begins. Then he stills, waiting for Liam to refute him—interrupt with a sharp response, something. But he doesn’t. His hands don’t move from where they hold the yellow mug.

Harry continues, slow-as-ever, “what—happened, there?”

Liam’s face rearranges itself unsuccessfully. He looks at Harry. “It’s just what you think it is,” he mumbles. “There’s nothing more to it.”

“But you always said—Louis was fine, he was doing fine, that he wasn’t…you know.”

“It’s not my story to just parade around,” Liam frowns. “Don’t be insensitive about this.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not trying to be.”

“But you are,” Liam’s eyes back on the mug, “and that’s almost worse.”

Harry bites his lip, flushed at the back of his neck with embarrassment. It’s not that he doesn’t understand. It’s that Liam is his best friend and he never noticed the weight of it on him; it’s that his stories about Louis don’t match what walked into the apartment just a few hours ago. It’s terrible, and confusing, and nothing about it is easy to process.

“I just want to understand,” Harry shrugs, trying to stay light, knowing all the while how pointless it is. Shouldn’t it be allowed to be heavy, anyways?

“The beginning, the middle, or the end,” Liam offers. His stare is hard.

“Liam,” Harry reasons, slowly, “I want to be able to help if he needs it. I’m not trying to make him into some charity case.”

The words seem to stop in the air, just for a second, before they reach Liam and he sighs the tension out of his shoulders. “Sorry, Haz,” he shrugs, “you’ve just not got the greatest track record.”

Harry’s voice is tight. “Right.”

“I’ve watched Arnaud pretty much destroy him,” Liam exhales. “I’d never say that to Louis. I don’t want him to think he’s broken, he’s too stubborn. He won’t want to heal if he thinks he’s a charity case because of his abusive—his boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Fuck, that feels so good to say.”

“So, what are you gonna do?”

“Let him stay here for a while,” Liam shrugs. “Get him a job at the shop.”

“He should,” Harry swallows, unsure of whether he has authority to weigh in on anything, “he should probably see someone, you know?”

“Yes, I know,” Liam agrees. “But he won’t.”

“Maybe he would,” Harry sits, quiet.

After a beat, Liam leans forward to regard Harry. “He won’t, Haz. You don’t know him like I do. Louis doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t want to be put in therapy to talk about it. He never has, for anything.”

 _For anything._ Harry suppresses a reaction, a need to dig further. Liam was right. It’s not any of his business.

“You shouldn’t decide that for him,” Harry picks at the skin on his forefinger. “I know’m not—in any place to say, but…you just shouldn’t.”

“Neither of us are, I guess,” Liam softens. “We have no idea what this is like.”

“Yeah.”

Rain taps on the roof.

“He’s been my best friend since we were kids,” Liam pinches the bridge of his nose, desperate to maintain composure. “I knew the whole time they were dating that it was bad, but I couldn’t do anything. I talked to him about it a million times.”

He inhales, and the act itself interrupts his attempts to stay calm. His eyes brim. “And even that was difficult, because—” Liam laughs, privately, recalling a memory, “Louis would get so ridiculous, mate, blow up as soon as I’d get a word in.”

“I would’ve done the same,” Harry says.

“Anyone would,” Liam agrees, “like what you tried to do just now, with him…I realized early on,” his eyes scan the indiscernible outside, “that Louis loves Arnaud. Any amount of me bad-mouthing him won’t change it.”

Harry follows his gaze. “But wouldn’t—wouldn’t his friends saying that stuff have any impact? You’d think, like, it might make him think.”

“It did,” Liam looks back to him. “It’s got nothing to do with reasoning, though.” Harry can see the start of his freckles dotting his nose. He doesn’t fit in with the black-and-white of the room, the blankness of the morning.

Liam ducks his head. “Every fight, then every break-up, we’d have the same conversation. And I know, it’s not about me,” Liam scrubs his hands over his face. “But just looking at him—hearing in his voice, how he used to be, Harry, it was like—it was like he was dying, slowly, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“You know you couldn’t, though,” Harry assures, “Louis had to be the one to leave. He had to, y’know, come to that.”

“I know. Some days, though, I just felt it—I felt when I’d get a call, and sometimes—” Liam bites his nail. “Sometimes I really thought it would be a hospital, or his mum. Never knew if I’d get a call one day that he was missing, or, you know? Even then, he might still go back to him.”

Harry nods. He tries to keep the possibility out of his mind. “He might, yeah.”

“I can’t deal with that,” Liam rasps. He wipes at his eyes, furiously, face streaked red. “If he goes back to him now I have no idea how I’ll handle it.”

It’s then that the impact of his love for Louis, and his helplessness, burst through. Harry can see the lingering traces of it, where the hurt is still fresh and where the scars have healed over. The love is jagged. Harry wonders how much it must have taken for Liam to keep this to himself; wishes he would have caught on sooner.

“You’d handle it…how you’ve been handling it,” Harry reasons. “By just being there, I guess.”

Liam smiles at him, barely. “He’s funny, you know. He used to be very funny.”

“He still is,” Harry touches Liam’s hand. “Give him time. It’ll be alright,” his thumb traces over his skin, “you’ll see.” He thinks about the color of Louis’ black eye.

“I hope you’re right,” Liam nods. He removes his hand from Harry’s and sits back in the chair. They watch the fog pass over London.

 

 

✿ ✿

 

 

_Louis slumps against the front door. It’s locked. Of course that’s his fucking luck._

_Earlier today he and Arnaud had snacked and walked through the town together. The trees had just began to blossom pink along the Seine. Paris was waking, and it smelled like childhood everywhere—or, rather, how childhood should smell._

_His head hits the wood. Arnaud knows every Friday night Louis gets drinks with his co-workers—and Louis isn’t late in coming home, either. He’s early. He wanted to come home early. No fights, no bad feelings, no reason for the locked door, which is steadily growing more frustrating as his bladder is seconds from exploding._

_Louis is about to knock, comforted by his reasoning, when the distinct click of locks emerges, followed by an open door and a placid-faced Arnaud._

_“Hello, mon chou,” he smiles. “Back so soon?”_

_“Yes,” Louis grins. “Wanted to have a bit of a night-in with you, to be honest.”_

_Arnaud is still smiling at him, unwavering. Louis’ heart picks up speed, all at once from the face of someone he loves waiting up for him; then when the smile doesn’t fade, Louis swallows. He’s about to take a step back—all at once entirely too sure of the mistake he just made—but Arnaud reaches out for him._

_“I was so lonely, tonight,” Arnaud pleads, his voice dripping with it. “You left me all alone for hours.” His fist in Louis’ shirt isn’t threatening, but needy, and Louis tries to keep calm._

_“Darling,” he soothes, desperately, “that’s why I came back early, couldn’t have a good time knowing you were home alone.”_

_The grip tightens. “You shouldn’t have left in the first place.”_

_“It was my mistake,” Louis rushes, hands coming to rest on Arnaud’s chest, smoothing the fabric. He kisses the length of his neck. “It won’t happen again, love,” his heart hitting the surface of his skin, “it won’t happen again.”_

_It’s fast, Louis thinks. So fast, and so well-planned. Arnaud always knew how to play his cards._

_His hand is tight on Louis’ throat, something he never liked during sex, or foreplay, but he knew Arnaud needed and that was all he needed then, too. This time it’s not playful. Louis’ eyes pry open, wide and frightened. His fingers claw helplessly at the hand, not understanding the brown eyes made black, until the hand tightens further and he knows._

_“Arnaud, I—”_

_“Shh, cher. You’ll wake the neighbors. Come inside now.”_

 

✿

 

 

Louis startles awake.

Blood swims through his ears. Humiliated, he wipes at his face, wet with tears. The first breath is so wide, he feels he’s been underwater, and he can’t get enough. He heaves, chest expanding raggedly. Silence covers every inch of the room.

His head whips around. There are lots of places in here someone could hide. He didn’t check the closet. He didn’t check under the bed.

For a brief moment, Louis is paralyzed on the sheets. The white room spots. Then the rush overcomes him, and he leaps off the bed, erratic. He rips open the closet door, eyes bulged out in fear, eager to catch any sight of him.

His hands tear down the clothes hanging in Liam’s closet until it’s empty, until no shadows show through and the light from the window exposes the cream backwall. Louis’ face pinches, about to cry, bottom lip pressed up into his top lip; but he doesn’t. He carries the expression and sobs, once, while he drops to the floor and looks under the bed. Empty, save for the dust, save for a pair of socks Liam isn’t aware of.

Louis pushes the curtains away from the window. His frantic eyes scan the front of the building, the sidewalk, anywhere in the distance where Arnaud might be standing and already looking back at him. He sees it in his mind and looks for it. It doesn’t come, whatever future where Arnaud has found him already. Louis shivers. He turns to look at the room, anticipating a hand to wrap around his ankle or his neck, something. The drawers are all open. Liam’s clothes cover every inch of the floor.

Louis breathes. He doesn’t remember doing that.

When he looks down at the desk, Liam’s things are knocked over, drawers again pulled open, the chair knocked on its back. The sight of it doesn’t stick. Then it does.

Silent, Louis walks through the mess, a ghost out of his skin. Touch is muted. When he touches the door knob, turns it open, Louis only expects to see Arnaud on the other side. He was safe in this room but now he’s not and this is his fault. This is all his fault.

Liam’s white wall feeds into the darkwood floor of the living room, the blue, where Harry is standing up at the table, eyes already on where Louis is entering. A newspaper all but dangles from his hands. Harry’s red mouth is thin, expectant.

“Where’s Liam,” Louis asks, panic running under his words.

“Louis,” Harry drops the newspaper on the table, “I heard the noise—are you alright? Can I get—”

“I need Liam,” Louis says, softly. “Where’s Liam?”

Harry hears the absence. He knows right away what could happen—every now and then he recognizes the familiar prick up the back of his own neck, the way his vision flatlines, the distinct heartbeat that tells him the world is about to end in a bit. He steps forward, cautious.

“He’s coming back soon,” Harry tries.

“But where is he?” Louis presses. His lips pull over his teeth, muscles in his arms tight from his grip on the door knob.

“He’s just at work,” Harry says, taking another step forward.

Louis flinches. “When is he coming back?”

“Just a few hours,” Harry rushes out, trying to prevent the inevitable, “so soon, I promise.”

“No,” Louis’ mouth scrunches up, tears spilling over. His hand lets go of the door knob, finally, but then his hands find his hair and grasp it there. The knuckles whiten. Harry is moving before he can think not to, before the filament fractures. He’s too scared of what comes next.

And yet.

When Louis starts screaming, which is within seconds of touching him, Harry’s hearing blacks out. There’s nothing else but the dampness of his shirt where Louis’ open mouth rests, where the fingernails scratch up and down his back, and Harry thinks, _Just take what you need, take whatever you need, I’ll give it to you._

Louis’ chant, a succession of throaty no’s, persists against him, but he doesn’t move away. They slide to the floor together like that, Harry holding him, or—Louis clutching to him hot as death, shivering from the force of his cries, the ringing of it caught in the high ceilings.

Harry bites down on his lip, waits for Louis to stop fighting him.

It takes long enough that Harry’s able to slump himself against the wall, Louis now buried in his shoulder next to him. He seemed small when he came in just yesterday; but now Harry sees what this has done. He was only ever a kid when he fell in love, the kind that ruins, and he’s still a kid now.

Beside himself, Harry rubs his thumb into Louis’ back. He keeps crying, wiping at his nose to clear away the snot until Harry lets him use his shirt. There’s no kindness from the clouds, either, it’s only been rain and tomorrow it’ll be more of the same.

Some sun, at least, might not make things seem so dark.

Tomorrow he has to have a collection ready for the shop—he was supposed to finish it this afternoon, but it looks like it’ll have to wait. Liam is late coming home almost every day; and so it’s unsurprising when this day begins to turn over and the white outside slides into a pale pink and Liam still isn’t home.

Louis is quiet. His fingers, thin with very small cuts at the base of the knuckles, pick at a loose thread at the hem of Harry’s t-shirt.

Gently, he pulls out the thread, and Harry feels it tugging away from him, the hem frazzled at the edge where Louis’ removed it.

There is something comfortable about it, that in another lifetime there’s two bodies against the wall that look like them, maybe they’re in love or maybe they’ve just fallen out, but it’s them—the strangeness of the image worms around in Harry’s stomach. He swallows.

Sheepish, eyes crusted at the ends, Louis looks up at Harry for the first time since they found themselves there. He murmurs, very small, the blue iris unnaturally bright with a mischief Harry’s only heard of, “Sorry about that.”

Harry can hear his heart hammering all around his head, the lines of Louis not as definite as when he walked in, his body bleeding into Harry’s. Harry smiles, then, easy as anything. “Don’t worry about it. S’just a thread.”

“No,” Louis shakes his head, looks back down, “it’s not. It’s your favorite t-shirt.”

“Is it?” Harry asks. “News to me.”

“You wore it yesterday,” Louis offers.

“Mm,” Harry hums, “you call it favorite, I call it lack of clean laundry.”

Louis peers up at him again, a playfulness reserved for adolescence dotted about his long eyelashes. He seems suddenly self-conscious, wiping under his nose again, scratching away at what’s dried just under it. “Wasn’t gonna say anything,” he stretches away, “what with you being a shoulder to lean on, and whatnot, but you smell awful.”

Harry doesn’t know if he can laugh—if the atmosphere should change just yet. Then he remembers Liam, _“He’s funny, you know. He used to be very funny.”_ So he laughs, low, enough that Louis turns again to look at him and grants him a half-smile.

The lamp in the corner turns on. Harry rubs his eye and murmurs, “It’s seven.”

“Seven at night?” Louis settles back under his arm, against the wall. “Christ.”

A warm glow coats the surface of the room, dripping onto everything, pleasant in its summertime reminiscence. Their breath is audible, Louis allowing a few sighs into Harry’s chest. Next to him, Harry senses the looseness to his limbs, tries to pick up on all the ways Louis relaxes into him. In the light, the slope of his nose seems so smooth, the curve of his eyelashes. He looks—

Harry exhales. Louis notices his stare, turns to him with a wry press of lips, and he feels the dust settle.

“Listen,” Harry begins, tentative, “Louis—”

“Please don’t.”

It cuts through, so sure of itself. Harry tilts his head to Louis, takes him in, his bowed head, forehead resting on the knees drawn up to his chest. Louis mutters into his knees, “Please don’t say anything about it. It’s just a thing that happened.”

Harry pauses. “Okay, um. If you ever want to, like—”

“Yes,” Louis lifts his head sharply, the smile just as sharp. “Thank you.”

It makes Harry wince. “‘Course,” is all he has time for, because Liam’s key is in the door and then Liam is in the doorway, face still as he regards the two of them on the floor. He’s carrying a yellow take-out container, messenger bag slung over his shoulder and hair falling softly onto his forehead.

“Hi,” he says, somewhat surprised. “Just having a chat on the floor?”

Unsure of how to respond, they both stay silent. There’s no reason for it and Harry regrets it immediately, but he removes his arm from where it holds Louis close. Liam frowns, “Why is it so dark in here?” He flicks the lights on.

The sudden addition of white is overwhelming for Harry’s eyes, a bit sensitive, having adjusted to the natural diminished light. He digs the heel of his palms into both of them, scrunching up his nose in displeasure. Liam hangs his coat by the door, eyes brown and kind as ever, and asks, “Something happen?”

Harry attempts to answer one of the many questions, but Louis beats him to it.

“Em, actually, Liam—I had a bit of trouble today,” he gestures to the bedroom, where the door is partially shut away, “I made a mess of your room, I’m afraid.” Louis stands, picks at the skin on his elbow while Liam crosses to the table. He puts his take-out down gently.

“S’alright,” Liam shrugs, “let’s take a look at the damage.”

As Liam heads for the door, Louis babbles, “I’ll clean it up, I promise, I don’t really know what happened,” his voice fading into Liam’s low whistle as both of them disappear into the room, taking the last distraction Harry has.

There’s nothing to the feeling. He knows exactly what it is, what it means, and he knows it should be less terrifying but it isn’t. He always stumbles into love and its messes and the only reason he ends up staying is to clean it away, to bleach the blood-stained tile, to cover the bruises.

Harry stands on the outside, listening, thinks about the lines of Louis’ smile, about his black eye, fading.

Then he realizes he shouldn’t and shuffles to the table, his back aching from sitting against the wall for hours. His fingers fan out over his sketches from this morning.

The collection he’s been working on the past month has been under the theme of love, which is fairly typical for jewelry, obviously. Last month he’d collaborated with another artist famous for their clean-cut diamonds, and that had been love too, because “diamonds are timeless” and the city saw a spike in engagements.

Anything he’s working on anyways usually carries some current of love with it, but it’s special to him this time. Not for other people.

Harry loves working with enamel, and bone, maybe more than he should. He ends up ignoring fancier jewel work when he knows he could make much more money if he produced pricier pieces. There would be nothing in it for him then, though. Diamonds don’t interest him as much as they used to when he was a kid.

He grabs at the stray pencil on the table. This bracelet is white enamel pieces mixed with white bone shells—the enamel doesn’t just enact the bone, but complements it.

The curve of the bracelet looks fine, but, the way the center enamel is positioned doesn’t seem right. He’s already torched the enamel, though, so there’s nothing to do with his displeasure but sit with it.

Liam pads back in, considerably less present, the purple crescents under his eyes revealing his exhaustion. He was always soft-footed, soft-smiled. Even when Liam is angry it doesn’t come from the base of the spine, like Harry’s does. It comes from the back of his throat, and when he’s said what he needs to, then he comforts.

“How is he,” Harry breathes out, eyes still trained on the design.

“Fine,” Liam supplies. “He said he didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods.

Liam pulls out a chair, ruffling the plastic of his take-out order. “I’m gonna let him get settled this week,” Liam hushes, “then I’ll see if he wants to work at the juice shop.” As the container opens, Harry recognizes the familiar smell of the greasy spoon they used to eat at a year ago. They have good french fries that Harry often still indulges in. Including now.

His hand reaches into the bag, quick so Liam can’t swat him away, and grabs two french fries. The lack of reaction from Liam has him furrowing his eyebrows, wiping the grease on the back of his jeans and fixing him with confusion.

“I don’t mind giving up two fries in exchange for what you did today,” Liam says, light.

Harry shakes his head, the dread again shifting around, a tapeworm in his stomach. “It’s fine.” He pauses. “I know how to handle that stuff.”

“I know,” Liam says. “Just wish I could’ve been here, too.” He stuffs a few fries in his mouth. “I don’t want you to feel like you need to handle it if it’s too much, y’know?”

“Well, I don’t…” Harry sits down in the chair, erasing uneven edges where the engraving rests, “I don’t think about it like that. I mean, someone has to.”

“What happened, anyways? Besides how he woke up,” Liam unwraps his sandwich. The crinkle of the aluminum is strange when it’s been so silent for so long.

Everything seems strange, now.

Liam’s chewing is a bit loud. Harry finds a groove in the table and scratches it with his nail, trying to focus.

The moment itself, Louis’ eyes wide, rimmed red, the strain of his muscle as he held to the door—none of it felt real. “Well,” Harry starts, “I was sitting here, and…I heard a lot of knocking around. I wasn’t sure if—like, I should let him calm down, or—it was stupid,” Harry admits, “I should’ve checked on him right away, but I was…”

“Scared,” Liam says.

“Yeah,” Harry rushes out. “I was scared. And, like, then he just—opened the door,” Harry spreads his hands on the table, watches them with rapture. “He looked exactly like he felt, like how I knew it must feel before you’re gonna lose it.”

“I’ve seen that look on you before,” Liam sits back, food abandoned.

“Right,” Harry nods, “so I knew what was coming, and I didn’t even have to think before I was walking to him. He asked for you, actually.”

“He did?” Liam’s mouth drops open, just slightly. He runs a palm down the side of his face. “Fuck.”

Harry touches his knee. “S’alright. After he let me hold him, he calmed down. Um, and that’s how you found us.” He stills for a moment, looking at Liam, unsure. “I’m really sorry,” he says.

“Me too,” Liam nods. “He never deserved this. I’d be fine with him trashing my room every day,” he laughs, very thin, determined to keep the air light, “if it’d help him feel safe again.”

Harry’s chest kicks in, “Don’t you think, though,” then he breathes, tries to stop the sentence from happening, but it goes anyways, “don’t you think how he responded today was good? It was, like—it was healthy.”

Liam’s eyebrows raise, then relax again, his tan skin washed out by the overhead light. His fingers peel apart the plastic. Harry watches.

“It—was,” Liam says slowly. “It was, well. Better than him keeping it locked up tight. He’s more prone to do that, instead of—actually,” Liam’s intonation shifts considerably, “I was a bit terrified when I saw you on the floor together.”

Harry nods, “I was worried about that. I didn’t want it to seem like—”

“No, no,” Liam waves it away with his hand, “I don’t mean about you. Louis doesn’t…let people in often,” he explains, “even on a good day. The fact that he let you do that is sort of crazy.”

It slams Harry hard in the chest. He stands, as casually as possible, trying to calm down but the pin-pricks are in his fingers, up his arms. Fuck, he’s so affected already, by anything, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He could tell Liam, but he’s sure what he’d say, and even then, he has no idea what he’d say.

Liam tenses, “Uh. Alright?”

“Tea,” Harry mutters in response. He’s about to step away from the table when there’s a faint murmur. He sends Liam a questioning glance.

Then a very soft, but more audible “Liam,” carries through the room. Liam turns to look in the doorway, Harry’s eyes as well finding Louis standing there. He’s bare-footed, eyes half-lidded, drowning in Liam’s clothing. He looks—small, Harry thinks. He looks small.

“Lou,” Harry can hear the smile in Liam’s voice, “those fit you well, don’t they?”

Louis holds up an arm. The sleeve passes right over his hand. Harry can feel it from here, his embarrassment, and Harry wants to touch him, to tell him he doesn’t have to make it up to them. It’s okay for him to hurt so openly. “Definitely,” Louis smiles, though slightly disingenuous, “just the way I like me sleeves, actually.”

His smile startles Harry, sends a part of him falling out of place. It’s genuine all of a sudden, is the thing, and around his eyes the skin crinkles like paper.

Liam turns around to gauge Harry’s reaction, of course he does, which is when he smiles wider. Harry makes a face at him, then at Louis, who’s raised an eyebrow in the time it took to do so.

“Didn’t interrupt a lover’s spat, did I?”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, “but you did interrupt his post-gym celebration.”

Louis positively shrieks, pointing at Liam, “I knew it! I could smell it on you!” He advances on the table before Harry can blink, Liam shouting, “Now you’ve done it! Way to go, Harry!”

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry insists with mild amusement. Frankly the entire scene is jarring from what occurred earlier. He watches Louis cross to the other side of the room and jump on the sofa, bag of french fries cradled in his small palm.

“Ah, but you did,” Louis chides, mouth full.

“He’s always taking my food,” Liam frowns. He plants himself back in his chair and picks at the remnants of his sandwich. Then he accepts it, but sends Louis a stern, “At least save me two or three.”

Louis’ eyebrows knit together, playful. “What happened to being a health nut, anyways? Think of your gut, Liam. Don’t want it to get bigger, do we?”

“You should talk,” Liam fires back. Harry’s sure he’s never heard Liam get so worked up that quickly before. He opens his mouth. He closes it.

“Do you always fight like this,” he asks, confusion clear in his tone.

“Like what,” Louis calls, now sitting on the sofa’s backboard. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows.

“Like an old married couple,” Harry offers.

Louis grins at him, confirms with an “Absolutely,” as Liam mutters, “We’re the farthest thing from married in the world.”

“Dunno,” Harry shrugs, “that was pretty married.”

“I want to go out,” Louis announces, dropping the empty, grease-stained bag on the sofa. He’s standing on the cushions, now the tallest person in the room, endearing in the squareness of his shoulders and golden skin.

The prior calm that fixed Liam’s face washes off in stages. His mouth relaxes while the edges of his eyes draw up. He looks to Harry for one, brief moment. Harry’s confusion is evident in the pinch between his brows.

“Are you…hungry,” Liam asks.

Louis scoffs. “No, baby Liam, I want to go-out, go out. Drinks,” he grins, wolfish, “music. The fun stuff.”

It sits, thick, at the center of Harry’s chest. When he decides to meet Louis’ eyes, he finds an impatience that increases every second they don’t answer. Harry picks at the skin of his finger, nervously, the city outside the window blackened by night, not enough stars. Just a few minutes ago, he seemed completely different.

Harry begins, slowly, “D’you think…maybe it’s a bit late? To do it tonight?”

Louis’ eyebrow twitches. “Isn’t that the point, love? Late night fun. Or, what is it either of you do instead—stay in your rooms, lock the door, beat off?”

“Lou,” Liam sighs, standing.

“I know what this is,” Louis says, tone suddenly cold on the turn of a dime. “I know what you’re doing.”

Liam’s hands are out, open, “What am I doing?”

“You’re treating me like I’m—like I’m not normal,” his tone thickens with emotion at the end. Harry watches him swallow it down, eyes turning onto the floor, fists clenching at his sides, and he wants to touch him again just to see if it can take away any trace of Arnaud’s fingers that he must still feel on his skin.

“That’s not true,” Liam says, “You know it’s not. I just don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Moving on with me life isn’t a good idea,” Louis half-yells, the ugliness to his hurt showing through. It betrays the staunchness of his shoulders, the stillness in his eyes. Louis turns to Harry suddenly, face flushed red, “You get it, don’t you? You get how mad I’ll go if I stay here all day and night.”

Harry looks at Liam, cautious. Liam nods.

“Louis,” Harry murmurs. His lips barely move, but he watches Louis, that same orange-yellow light from the lamp around his edges. He looks—he’s angelic, Harry decides, he is. Harry blinks with the new weight of the word, the smile coming easy. “I get it, but—I think Liam might be right, maybe tonight isn’t the best.”

Louis regards him and for a moment that’s all there is, the angel at the edge of heaven and Harry watching him, wondering what his mouth might feel like, wondering if they’d burn alive from it.

“Okay,” Louis whispers. He steps onto the floor, quietly. Liam stands, about to say something, when Louis grabs for a blanket and sits back on the couch. He sighs, “I’m gonna take the couch now, Liam.” He turns to look at him and offer a smile, for his sake, “It’s alright, yeah? This is comfy.”

Liam is tense, but his shoulders give. He always gives when it comes to Louis, and it shouldn’t be so easy but there’s no way out of an argument with him once it begins. Before it might’ve been worth it, to see the two of them red-faced, Harry an outsider on their strange, childhood love, but the air is thick around his throat and across the room he can see the wetness to Louis’ eyes. There’s nothing in them.

“Alright,” Liam agrees. It doesn’t stop him from walking over to ruffle Louis’ hair once—something intimate and unspoken between them. Harry never had anything like that. It leaves him light-headed.

“Harry,” Liam turns on his heel, “you staying up?”

He blinks. “Uh, yeah,” he blinks, “gotta finish some things, so. Yeah.”

“Alright,” Liam nods. “Keep an eye on ‘im.”

“‘Course,” Harry says. He finds Louis looking at him curiously. “I’ve got to finish this design for tomorrow, so—”

“What is it you do, anyways,” Louis asks, through a yawn. Its disinterested tone doesn’t escape Harry, who darkens the lines of the engraving somewhat tentatively. He’s not sure he’s ready to be in Louis’ line of fire, not when every nerve-ending is raw and red around him.

“I make jewelry,” Harry says. The curl of the lettering looks beautiful, that much he will say. As long as he can replicate it tomorrow, he’ll have quite a stunning collection to kick off the spring season.

“Fancy,” Louis murmurs, his body blocked from view by the back of the couch. He really is small.

There’s a stuttering in Harry’s hands, making it almost impossible to finish blackening the lines without creating a new mistake to correct. He itches against the white, instead decides to draw up new designs for a smaller collection, one with bone and—and blue stone.

He bites his lip.

Louis makes a noise—it’s just a rush of air, high in his mouth, but it stills Harry. He waits to see if anything follows, if it’s a bad dream and he’ll wake and will need someone there to reassure him. Nothing happens, except, it sort of does.

Before he can think too much about it, Harry starts sketching.

 

 

✿ ✿

 

 

It’s the kind of night Louis used to live for.

The key sears hot in his jean pocket, another similar hotness in his lungs. His fingers clutch a cigarette, the first cigarette he’s had in months, waving it around at his side as he walks down the street. Arnaud had wanted him to quit, so he did, but Arnaud isn’t here now.

Louis can do what he wants.

All he needed was a light jacket, so he took Harry’s off the back chair. He’d be back in a few hours, anyways, and something about Harry smelled sweet.

It reminded him of when he’d make crepes on the weekends, slathering them with butter and sugar. He was sweet like that, sweet in the way that drew memories from him but left his blood alone.

The cherry burns its way to the filter, and Louis watches it eat away at the paper, how it takes its time in dying. Louis sucks one last inhale out of it, killing it for good, before flicking it off onto the sidewalk.

He pushes hard against the bar door, able to breathe at once in the middle of the thick cigar smoke and sludge-smell of rum. He’s greeted by no one, because no one knows who he is. He’s completely anonymous in a sea of university students and older couples out for a few routine drinks.

This place has an atmosphere that operates on the use of a jukebox, which you have to slide coins in to use, of course, but it means that old-time favorites are often the songs of choice. Etta James croons while Louis looks around, the low lighting concealing the faces of most of the customers.

Even though he loves the static aspect to being unknown, he pretends in his own body that he’s been here before, that he comes here every weekend. He hops up on a spare bar stool on the opposite side of the bar—so he can see anyone enter the bar, especially if—if Liam or Harry come looking. That’s all.

Louis orders a whisky—that stupid sort of masculine drink his father always asked for when they were out at a family dinner. It’s his fault Louis’ like this, that’s what everyone says, the therapists, if his father had been more present, he wouldn’t be like this. _Like this._

They’re all wrong, as it is, Louis’ father was plenty present, present enough to smash a glass at the back of his mother’s head, scare the shit out of everyone in the house once a week. Then when the rest of his disease took him for good, Louis became the sole provider, the source of most of their income.

He was a kid built to carry the house on his back. He didn’t learn to ask why—but he never thought to, either.

Halfway through the whisky, he tries to focus on the bits and pieces of conversation around the bar. There’s a young couple together, two girls with freshly-kissed faces and eyes that Louis knows, are brimmed with love.

They’re drinking something that looks delicious, pink—like cotton candy. Arnaud hated these kinds of drinks. He also hated how too many made Louis a bit too needy, a bit too clingy in public.

Louis waves the bartender over, “Oi.”

“Another whisky,” the boy asks, green-eyed and impatient. Louis blinks back against the color. It’s not the right one.

“No,” he shakes his head. Then he holds up a finger, “Actually, yeah. Get me another one, and then one of them pink things over there.”

“Sure thing,” the boy nods, curt, his smile too small, mouth too small for his face. Louis studies the line of his back while he works, the confidence in his hands while he shakes the martini.

When they start to look like Arnaud’s, Louis downs the rest of his whisky.

 

 

 

✿ ✿

 

 

Harry blinks.

His face is smashed against the table, a puddle of drool having seeped between the skin and the wood surface. With a grimace, Harry wipes at his mouth, the inside tasting sour. He’s not sure when he fell asleep, but the lamp is still on in the corner, and Liam’s door is closed.

All of the blue paint and gold light makes him feel dreamy, blood rushing to his head when he stands. His hand flies out to steady his balance, closes his eyes tight. When he opens them, bleary, the couch is empty.

His heart lurches. No, wait—he’s probably with Liam. He could absolutely be with Liam.

Harry cracks the door open, hoping beyond anything that the two familiar frames are together, but even in the dark he can see Liam is alone. Harry swallows. All he had to do was make sure Louis was alright and he couldn’t even do that. Harry is at Liam’s side instantly, shaking him.

Liam sputters awake. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Louis,” he panics, hands wild in the air, “he’s not here. I—I fell asleep and he must’ve—”

“What—what do you mean he’s not here, Harry? Where is he?” Liam sits up in bed, blinking rapidly.

“I don’t know, I just woke up, and he was gone, I—”

“Fuck, Harry, seriously? Fuck,” Liam rips the sheets off his body and climbs out of bed faster than Harry can keep track. “We have to get him home, who knows where—”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Harry chokes. “I don’t even remember falling asleep. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s—fine, whatever, it’s done,” Liam buttons his jeans, grabs for a shirt off the floor. Then he pauses, a strip of the light from outside cutting his body in half, severing him down the nose, the chest. Harry still isn’t sure he ever woke up.

When Liam pries the t-shirt over his head, he says, suddenly calm, “He wanted to go out, right? I guarantee you I know where he is.”

 

 

 

✿ ✿

 

 

 

By the time they arrive at the bar, it’s full of drunk students, radio Top 40 blasting through every inch of Harry’s skin. He rests a hand on the bar ledge while Liam talks to the owner, the bartender, scans the room for any trace of him.

The wood is hot under his fingers, the ghost of someone else’s skin not yet faded.

Liam comes back to him with a weary light to his eyes. Harry asks if there’s anywhere else he could be, but Liam tells him that Louis doesn’t know London that well.

“So that’s good,” Harry surmises, crossing the street to start the long walk home. “He won’t get into any trouble.”

“I keep forgetting,” Liam shakes his head. “You don’t know Louis. If anything, all that means is the exact opposite.”

They walk in silence for a few moments, pausing at a busy intersection. “How many bars would he have gone to? Louis’ kinda lazy, in’t he?”

“Let’s hope so,” Liam sighs.

Even though it’s summer, the night is unbearably cold. Harry rubs his hands down his arms, fighting a chill, biting his lip and licking it to chase the warmth of his blood back into his body.

The man on the traffic light illuminates. It hurts Harry’s eyes.

 

 

 

✿ ✿

 

 

 

Louis lets himself back into the flat, quietly, or as quietly as he can manage considering the phosphorescent lighting makes it too difficult to see.

The color of the walls is some sort of puke green, the carpeting garish, he’s not exactly sure how much Liam pays to live here but if he himself paid to live here, he might send a few e-mails on the appearance of the hallway alone.

“S’disgusting,” he mutters, shutting the door and wincing when it echoes. It’s the high ceiling, the posh London aesthetic ceiling, the stupid fucking-blue-heaven ceiling. Louis wishes he could slap himself onto the wall, stay there as a painting, greet everyone as they come and go. Watch Harry while he works.

Louis kicks his Vans off, bracing against the door for balance. “Whoops,” he laughs, sends a shoe flying a few feet ahead. He knocks his head back, the room spinning, the gut lurching like the first perfect descent on a roller coaster. Or maybe this is what falling from heaven might feel like. He slurs, “S’gotta be more alcohol here.”

It’s light, it’s free, his hands fidget all over the counter, tap incessantly the tune to a jazz song he heard on the way out. Louis throws the closed cabinet back open, muttering “as it should be,” under a hot, stale breath, the restless fingers wrapping around the bottle neck of rum. He raises his eyebrows at the space.

“Liam,” he calls, not too loud. He figures someone must be up, someone must know he’d left earlier and wants to chew him out for it. With the bottle in his hand, taking a quick swig, Louis walks back into the living room. Harry isn’t at the table.

He tries to relax his face but finds the whole situation very confusing.

“Is there anyone here, at all,” he yells, sound breaking off at the last phrase. He coughs, once. Then it strikes Louis there could definitely be ghosts here—what with the horror movie hallway he just endured, he’s positive someone could have been murdered in this apartment.

This makes him think of blood, of bedsheets, and he quietly swallows it, clears it away, no, not tonight, tonight is to push past it. Tonight is not for remembering.

His mouth crumples anyways, the memory forcing its way inside. His shoulders curve in around himself. “It could have been worse,” he says, practiced, “it could have been worse.”

He repeats it until he understands.

After a few moments, Louis sniffles and wipes under his nose. He thinks of the ghost and straightens, “Sorry you had to see that,” he says aloud to the room.

“Alright, then,” he smiles. “Let’s listen to some music, shall we?” Louis sets the bottle on the table, approaching an iPod that’s charging in a speaker system. He runs his hand across the speaker, scratching the heel of his palm alongside the textured plastic.

“What do you like,” he asks, before barreling on, “I’m a classic rock fan meself, but I don’t see much on this thing—s’called an iPod, by the way, not sure what time period you’re from.” There’s quite a bit of shit music on here, actually, except for a few songs by the Beastie Boys and The Weeknd.

He clicks around until he sees the name on the iPod—it’s Liam’s. “That explains it,” he sighs. With some luck, eyelids falling every few seconds, Louis finds a playlist that’s all Frank Sinatra. Alone in the apartment, Louis’ laugh echoes in his ears, while the beginning ticks to “Fly Me to The Moon” start.

The window is still open. Louis bumps his big toe against the sill, leaning forward to look below at the sidewalk. He’s still not drunk enough. He keeps remembering.

In the winter, Louis had wanted to come to London to visit Liam. Arnaud said he was too swamped with work, that he could never find a way to take off—and Louis knew not to press it, but it was Liam, so he did, and that night Arnaud was rougher than usual but it never led to anything worse. Still—something keeps nagging.

“I just should’ve known,” Louis murmurs. “I should’ve seen it coming.”

He thinks of Arnaud’s narrow shoulders, how they looked beneath the duvet, the dark blue, the Gulf de Lyon up to his ankles, the rocks hot as they sun-bathed on them. It was real—wasn’t it? It happened. All of it happened, even—

Even the swollen roundness to Arnaud’s face after he went out drinking, the blood stains Louis had to bleach out the next day, the bath he drew, the water scalding and even then he still couldn’t feel anything but an ache. The morning after.

Louis bites his lip.

The morning after, he felt everything.

Where he’d been scratched, the skin was always pulsing, raised, red, angry. Not angry, not yet, it had only hurt then. He could only lie down on the bed and observe the pigeons that landed on the balcony. Marathon a show he didn’t end up watching. It was white noise, Arnaud at work, his insides screaming, and now going through it all, it clicks.

His body draws up tight, away from the window, hand out to grab the bottle as he walks past the table. The floor is cold on his feet. In the kitchen, he reaches for the handle of Vodka on a high shelf, and drags it down with a sense of accomplishment.

Then he walks to the bathroom with both bottles, turns on the light, and locks the door behind him.

 

 

✿

 

 

 

_Something should hurt, but nothing does._

_Beneath Arnaud’s body, Louis felt himself tear into two. He felt the blood vessels burst, he tasted it on his lower lip, he could feel the nail beds dig in farther. He was in a flower field—this is what his mother used to imagine, when the fights got bad—“Just think of a field of poppies, love, like you played in that summer we went to Italy.”_

_He couldn’t separate himself._

_He was the poppy field. He was in the poppy field, on his back, while Arnaud fucked him raw and lifeless. He was dead in the poppy field where his mother found him._

_Then when he felt the hot pulse of come inside, Arnaud slumping on his back to press a small, tender kiss, a loving object that had no place in that bed, Louis saw himself six feet under. He was staring up through the ground at Arnaud, who wept for him, for the both of them. When he blinked it away, Louis was the one crying, and Arnaud was staggering back off the bed towards the kitchen._

_Then it rushed in, all at once, as his fingers reached to trace over the claw marks where some of his skin had been scraped off. It wasn’t yet night._

_He looked beneath him, still on all fours because he knew enough not to move, not until he was sure Arnaud was asleep in that chair. There was blood on the sheet._

_Minutes passed this way, Louis taking shallow breaths, licking over the cut on his lip. The lights below, on the street, began to turn on. He was sure Arnaud wouldn’t come back—wouldn’t take more, he never did, he never did any of this, he was always laughing kindly, always brown-eyed laughing kindly, but—he did. Louis heard his footsteps, the slow shuffle of them on the floor, and shut his eyes. Flower field. Flower field._

_It wasn’t in the night to be kind._

 

 

✿

 

 

 

_“I love you, mon petit chou,” Arnaud tucks him beneath his arm. Louis’ fingers come up to rest on an expanse of bare skin, just below the collar._

_His brown eyes flare gold. This is what love looks like._

_“What does that mean, anyway,” Louis teases._

_“What—what does “love” mean?” Arnaud smiles. He’s fond of philosophy, always wants to discuss coming-into-being, soul mates, the real romantic ideas Louis is content to listen to._

_“No,” he grins, “that nickname. How’d you say it, em, mon shoo?”_

_Arnaud’s laugh arrives high in his throat, light and silver. His fingers card through Louis’ hair, dried soft from the sun and the gentle, afternoon breeze. “Your french is getting better,” he comments. “T’as un petit accent!”_

_“Hm,” Louis pinches his side, “j’essaie. Now tell me. Dis-moi.”_

_“Well, it’s a vegetable. It’s, comment on dit—cabbage.”_

_Louis raises an eyebrow. He moves away to look at Arnaud plainly, how the strip of light lays across Arnaud’s forehead. His eyes shine, knowingly. “You’re calling me your cabbage?”_

_“My little cabbage,” Arnaud corrects. “It’s a term of endearment. In English you would say sweetie.”_

_“Think I prefer sweetie,” Louis mumbles. Arnaud pinches him back, on the small pouch of fat over his stomach. “Oi! Alright, alright—mon chou is fine.”_

_Louis settles against him, Marie’s even-toned chatter with a customer coming through. Now that it’s March, the flowers in the trees have begun to bloom. They’ll burst forward, pink and soft and dripping Paris with their smell._

_Then they’ll go away, as everything good does._

 

✿

 

 

 

_The tile is cold. Tile is cold, it’s white, the room is white. This must be heaven, the white tile with blue ribbon design. His eyes are closed but he knows this is what it looks like._

_His head pounds—hit his head on a sharp metal rod, seems convincing, he thinks his head must be bloody so he touches it, fingers come away wet. His hair is soaked. The inside of his mouth tastes like rot, smells like rot._

_When he tries to swallow, he gags._

_“Lou.”_

_It’s so soft. Louis opens his eyes, they peel apart, the whiteness dimming down to a blue. There is a candle. It explains the lavender. When his eyes focus, Harry is at the side of the tub, his face much too close._

_He’s dreaming. He still dreams. The man who suffers still dreams._

_“Harry,” he croaks, “I’m dreaming.”_

_“No,” Harry whispers, the slope of his nose coming into view, how it dips into the cupid’s bow of his lip. “You’re not, Lou.”_

_But this is too fragile for right now. Louis throat bobs, the discomfort thrumming through every nerve ending. His spine feels severed from the rest of his body. He knows this feeling._

_A beat passes. Louis meets Harry’s eyes, their assaulting green in the light, the candle brighter than it was before. His hand comes up to touch his face. The sharp angle of his jaw._

_Harry’s eyes slide closed. He lets out an exhale, bumping his nose into Louis’ hand softly. The tile is still blue, but Louis hurts everywhere, even in the places where Harry’s mouth presses. His eyes water immediately._

_Louis swallows, “I am dreaming,” watching Harry’s face fall into something so sad._

_“Why did you take a bath, Lou?” His mouth deepens, cherry-red. “Why did you do that?”_

_There’s no tub. He and Harry sit on the grass, Harry picks at a dry stem, the same sad face as before but much farther away. Louis knows what he wants, why he’s asking, and it’s too much_.

_“I wasn’t clean,” he explains. “I wanted to be clean again.”_

_“You should have told someone,” Harry says. It’s simple, here. It’s simple in a field with a stranger, who has nothing to gain from knowing his story, who looks like he knows what it means to hurt._

_There are too many things Louis should have done. None of them matter anymore._

_“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”_

_Louis looks over. Harry is next to him now. His hand close to Louis’ hand. It almost seems real—Louis can feel Harry’s breath as it fans over his lips, can feel the trembling in Harry’s skin, the hand that reaches towards him, so nervous to touch. Louis wants the quiet._

_He frames Harry’s face with his hands, ready to tell him the whole story, the reason why he could never tell, the reason why the bathwater wouldn’t sting, why nothing he did to himself ever hurt enough._

_But it’s no use. The field is on fire, and Harry’s mouth crashes into his before the words can crawl out._

 

 

✿

 

 

Louis wakes on the floor of the bathroom.

There’s the after-smell of a candle burnt out. The room is dark, the only light coming from the living room lamp that never seems to fucking go out. Harry is sleeping, arms crossed over his chest, up against the bathtub.

It’s another minute before the expected wave of nausea writhes at the pit of Louis’ stomach, his head beginning to pulse. He’s crying even before he hears his vomit hit the water.

 

 

✿

 

 

The next time Louis wakes, he’s in a bed. His chest feels weighted, throat hoarse from the vomiting. It comes back to him in a rush, the empty bottles, the sound of his vomiting, Harry’s eyes. He groans, rubbing at his head gingerly. His stirring attracts the attention of the other two in the room.

“Louis,” Liam breathes, approaching the bed with that parental sort of intimacy. Close but not too close. “Hey, how you feelin', then?”

Louis glares at him. “The fuck do you think,” he mutters. Harry holds out a glass of water, which Louis takes, the sides of the glass cold against his hand. He can’t make out the expression on Harry’s face.

“Saw you slept on the floor with me, last night,” he says.

Harry nods. “Had to. Liam had to work this morning.”

“Not that I wouldn’t have stayed,” Liam rubs the back of his neck. “But once I knew you weren’t gonna die, I felt a bit better.”

“Sweet of you, really,” Louis says, flatly.

Liam’s thin face comes into view. He has a bit of sunburn on his nose, across his cheeks, like someone took a brush and swept it over. His hand wraps around Louis’ wrist. Always so delicate with him.

“Truth is, Lou,” he whispers, then more confidently, “we think you should start seeing someone.”

Beside himself, Louis laughs. “What, a blind date? Anyone up for it, then?” His eyes flit over to Harry, who visibly stills. Louis’ smile falters.

“Not quite,” Liam says. Louis looks back to him, his mouth still tasting awful, his head still making it difficult to concentrate. “We want you to see someone for—you know, what happened to you.”

It’s enough that Louis will have to tip-toe around it for the rest of his life. He can’t be fucked to have to do it with someone that’s known him since he was a kid. “You mean how he hit me—how he—” Louis’ voice raises, sharp and shrill, but he doesn’t care, fuck the both of them standing in the room, treating Louis like porcelain, “You want me to see someone because he raped me.”

“Lou—” Liam startles, as if slapped.

“What,” Louis shrieks, then, “that’s what happened, innit? That’s what happened!”

Harry always moves so quickly, always before Louis can think to hate him for it. He couldn’t anyways, not when his eyes find Louis’ and all they do is quiet.

“Lou,” he murmurs, “that’s exactly what happened. That’s why we want you to talk to someone that can help.”

“Who’s going to help this,” Louis mumbles. He’s crying and his throat hurts. Neither of their faces are discernible and Louis has never felt this alone. “Who’s going to fix this?”

“It’s not to fix you,” Liam’s honey tone pours over, soothes. His hand finds Louis’ shoulder. “You don’t need to be fixed.”

Louis beats into his eyes with the backs of his hands. He’s too tired to fight them, too tired to explain to them all the ways he’s ruined. In a way he’d rather them not know about all the bad. Not when they still think he’s so good.

“Okay,” Louis says, miserable. He feels Liam’s rush of air, the exhale, Harry’s imperceptible nod, all an undercurrent to the pound of his head.

It hangs, a heavy black chord in the air, between them.

 

 

✿

 

 

 

He wakes up again to Harry sleeping in a chair next to the bed.

It’s hot, the humidity outside having traveled into the room through an open window. The rest of the flat is seemingly quiet—Liam having gone out again and Harry surrendering another night to stay close to Louis. His arms are folded tight across his chest, long legs spread out so his feet rest on top of the bed. He has a very large big toe.

His hair is long—longer than Louis remembers upon first meeting him. Not that he would’ve noticed much that day, anyways, he was still carrying the last pieces of Arnaud embedded in his shoulders, like glass. He brought the blood trail into their apartment.

Still.

Harry’s hair is long. A small curl sticks to his forehead from sweating, from a heavy dream. Louis itches to touch it. He dampens it down.

 

 

✿

 

 

Two weeks pass this way—

Louis finishes It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. His black eye heals over. He starts The Real Housewives of New Jersey. He stops asking them to leave the cabinets open, check under beds. Nightmares leave out the worst of the details.

Liam goes to work. Liam buys him clothes. Harry goes to work. Louis goes to the doctor, gets meds. They circle around him, vultures waiting for Louis to spill his guts.

He wants to tell them there’s nothing to wait for. That they shouldn’t expect so much from someone so empty.

 

 

✿

 

 

The pack is half-smoked by two, the afternoon grey with rain, although the fog has mostly lifted itself off the city’s body. Louis takes a drag.

Liam offered to buy Louis a new iPhone, but that’s too much, too soon. There’s no way to feel safe, and if Arnaud wanted to find him, using a burner phone wouldn’t prevent him from doing so.

But it’s a small comfort, and Louis can afford it with the annual plan, and that’s how he winds up on the windowsill with the black phone between his legs, thinking about his mother. He ashes the cigarette.

He has to call her.

Arnaud is—he’s just a man, he knows this, and he’s never even met his mother, never wanted to leave France, but—he just needs to know that she’s safe, that the girls are safe. He could give a shit about anything else, really.

The buttons of the phone make a noise when he presses them, his heart racing a mile a minute as the ring continues.

“Louis?” Fuck, she sounds—

“Yeah, mum,” he smiles, “it’s me.”

“Louis,” Jays voice, strained with emotion, “Louis, where are you? Why haven’t I heard from you?” He was hoping she’d be calm, because then it might help him act normal. All he wants is to feel normal.

“Mum,” Louis presses his thumb to his mouth, unable to stop the tears. He inhales sharply, “God, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Boo,” Jay says, “honey, he’s—Arnaud’s been calling, Louis,” Jay murmurs. “I didn’t know what to tell him.”

Of fucking course he’d call his mother. Frustrated, Louis winds a hand in his hair and grips tightly. “The fucking nerve,” Louis mutters, “I thought he might.” Then, sighing, “I’m so sorry, mum. I’m so sorry.”

“No, Lou. I am.” He can hear her sadness, the one she rarely ever let him see as a boy. It was different then. He couldn’t understand a sadness that paralyzes.

“I didn’t want you to get mixed up in it,” Louis says.

“Mixed up in what, Lou?”

There’s no good way to say it, is there? Not to his mum. Her heart’s been through enough as it is. His fingers shake as they angle the phone between his shoulder and ear, holding it there as he lights another cigarette. He’s got no idea how to tell her everything and he wonders if he really has to.

“Darling,” she chokes, and fuck if that wouldn’t send Louis barreling back to Doncaster just to make sure he never hears it again, “talk to me. Don’t shut me out.”

“I,” Louis starts, bites his lip. “I don’t know what to say, mum, it was…” A mother should never have to know these kinds of things, he thinks. There’s the easy way out—he knows she’ll understand what’s happened.

Louis continues, “I thought of…remember when you told me about the flower field?”

Jay’s exhale is palpable, striking Louis on the bone, “Oh, no, Lou—Lou, did it help? Did it help at all? I never thought,” the tone in her voice thickens “never thought in my life you’d ever have to go there.”

She cries, incessantly, as he does, the two of them weeping on the phone exchanging apologies each time they find a way to breathe.

There aren’t enough apologies to keep their wounds closed.

But it doesn’t mean Louis doesn’t wipe his eyes on his sleeve and feel relieved at the sweetness to his mum’s voice. Old age never quite got ahold of her or slowed her down, and neither did his father.

“Mum, it’s alright,” Louis smiles, eyes fogged. “It helped, it did, because,” he inhales, “because it was your place. I didn’t feel as scared, when it was—when it happened.”

“What did he do to you?” More silence. The cigarette trembles in his hands, his skin chilled with emotion. “Louis, what did Arnaud do?”

“I can’t say it,” he jerks his head, burying it in his sleeve. Her soft concessions keep him crying for another minute, breath always arriving too shallow to calm down. “Please don’t make me say it.”

“Where are you, darling? I’ll come get you.”

“No,” Louis blurts out, stammering, “I’m in—I’m in London, mum. I’m staying with Liam.” She can’t leave the girls, her job, and Louis knows if she comes to get him he’ll leave with her in a heartbeat.

“I need to see you, I need to make sure you’re alright.”

“Soon, mum, I promise.” Louis rubs his eyes. “It’s just. Even seeing Liam all the time is too hard sometimes. It’s too hard.” _Please don’t make this harder._

“I know,” Jay murmurs. “I know.” After a beat, she asks, “What are you going to do?”

Louis sighs into the air. He takes an idle finger and draws through the steam on the window. A sun.

“Liam’s got me a job at the juice shop,” he tells her. “Figure I’ll just…work there until I, you know—figure out what else I’m gonna do.”

“Do you…we don’t have a lot, but do you need—”

“No,” Louis says, quick. “Absolutely not.”

“Lou—” He can hear the sadness.

“I know you just wanna help, mum,” Louis murmurs. “But, I’ve got…plenty to last me for a while. It’s—that money needs to stay with you and the girls.”

“They really miss you, you know.” There’s little that hurts more than his mum’s voice, fraught with emotion, their distance so tangible he can taste it.

“I know,” Louis swallows. “I miss them so much. Miss all of you.”

Jay says, small, “And love you.”

Louis squeezes his eyes shut. “I know,” he breathes out. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Promise me, Lou.” He can’t help it, but he thinks, _Does she feel guilty? Does she wonder if she could have done anything to stop it from happening?_

“I promise, mum. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I love you so much, Boo Bear. I love you.” _She does._

“I know, mum. I love you too,” Louis rasps. He fumbles for another cigarette, eyelids shut tightly to keep the light out.

“Okay, I—call me tomorrow.”

“Okay. Love you, bye.” After the click of the phone lock, there’s that silence again.

Louis lights another cigarette.

 

 

✿

 

 

He takes a drag, smoke curling out of his mouth. Arnaud used to smoke these clove cigarettes in the summer, when it was hot and they made cucumber water and wasted whole days downstairs at the cafes.

Louis takes another drag.

It’s just ash, acrid, but it’s nothing like how things used to taste. The smoke is bluer, it lilts however the wind wants it to. For a second he imagines putting it out on his wrist, leaving a burnt moon there to scratch at. To use for days like today, when the hurt doesn’t come, when there’s only absence, and there’s no way to tether himself to the ground.

So he does.

Tongue tucked between his teeth, he bites down as he presses the cherry to his skin. Its hiss mingles with Louis’ fervent exhales, and it hurts like fucking hell but at least something does. Fuck.

Louis ashes the butt in the spare glass, itching idly around the burn’s perfect circle. It takes a few more moments, Louis blinking wildly through a steadily blurring vision, memories of his father’s cigar case and the blood and the glass—then it breaks.

Finally, it all fucking breaks.

 

 

✿

 

 

That’s how Harry finds him, bleary-eyed and crying over the burn, but not just the burn. He feels the air cut with Harry’s sudden movements, his breath that smells like toffee candies. “What happened? Lou—what did you do?”

“What’s it look like,” Louis gasps. “Just get me a band-aid or something.”

“No, I have an aloe vera plant,” Harry says, his grip on Louis’ arm assured, “I’ll go get some.”

“How is a bloody plant going to do—where are you going,” Louis stands. He watches Harry disappear into his room, the shadow following him across the wall, and then Louis is following him too. He hasn’t seen it yet, wonders if he has tacky rugs and music posters.

When he gets to the doorway, he pauses, Harry’s humming filling up the space. Louis recognizes the tune, “Wires,” by The Neighborhood. The smell of lavender oil hits him, curiosity sending his feet forward into the room, where his feet bump up against a beautiful, red-tinted rug. Louis can make out a few yellow flowers in the pattern, his eyes scanning all over the expanse of the room—three music posters, one of them Nirvana.

A string of fairy lights hangs at the top of the window, hovering over a pale lilac curtain. The room itself is mis-matched, hardly anything making sense about it, including the bookshelf that seems uneven.

Louis traces the bindings of the books there. He’s got all the typical choices of some post-university kid: Anthology of early English poets, Keats, Dryden, Donne, a book on French Surrealism. Louis smiles, wider once he sees the multiple volumes dedicated to Rimbaud. In a way—Harry reminds him of what Rimbaud was—wild face, eyes with a certain incandescence. He calls out, “You read a lot of poetry?”

There’s a drawer shut, then Harry’s feet cracking as he walks barefoot from the adjoining bathroom into the bedroom. “Um,” he drawls, immediately stopping as he sees Louis at the bookshelf. Louis freezes.

Harry’s hair is tied up in a bun, the angles of his face catching the light, casting shadows on the dip of his cheek. His lips look bitten pink, deep, something about them makes Louis think of sweet things. The caramelized sugar on top of crème brûlée. Harry holds up the piece of aloe. “Got it. What did you say?”

He walks towards Louis, dust particles visible around him. Louis can see the fresh stubble on his upper lip, a pimple just on the left side of his forehead.

Harry murmurs, “Do you want me—to,” he gestures to the burn. Louis finds his voice, still held in place by Harry’s eyes, “Em, no, it’s alright, I—I asked,” Louis almost laughs, taking the plant with a shaking hand, “if you read a lot of poetry?”

The aloe is cold, eases the sting of the burn quickly. Louis still lets out a gasp, accidentally brushing his forefinger too harshly across, Harry’s hands instinctively coming up around the curve of his arm.

“It’s fine,” Louis sighs, Harry closer to him than before, “just sensitive, yeah?”

“Alright,” Harry says. He reaches over for band-aids at his desk, black wood and as small as the table in the living room. Louis wipes the rest of the aloe on Liam’s gym shorts and places the plant piece on the bookshelf.

He watches Harry’s long fingers un-peel the band-aid. The first time Louis saw him, his face seemed otherworldly. Here in the light of the afternoon, he just seems childlike, inexperienced. A low thrum of heat runs up his spine.

“I can do it,” he whispers, but Harry is already taking hold of his arm, fingertips light on his skin, eyes fixed on the task at hand. His fingernails are clean, clipped short.

“I read some poetry,” Harry answers, brow furrowed. The band-aid slides on in one motion and Louis exhales. “I like Rimbaud.”

“Yeah,” Louis nods. “Me too. Une saison en Enfer.”

Harry tilts his head, gaze soft. “What’s that mean?”

“A season in Hell,” Louis translates. He looks down at his arm between them, the hairs standing up from the static. Harry’s eyes on him all the while.

“Thanks for patching me up, kid,” Louis smiles. “I appreciate it.”

“Why did you do it,” Harry blurts out, stilling immediately afterwards, as though he just thought about what he was saying.

“The burn?” Harry nods. Louis flits his eyes away, turns to look at the rest of Harry’s room. His big, dark-blue bedspread, peeled back neatly at the corner where Harry got out of bed that morning. There’s a book on the nightstand but Louis can’t make out its cover from here.

“I wanted…do you ever,” Louis licks his lips, “go somewhere in your head? Where it’s all fuzzy?”

“Sometimes, yeah,” Harry says.

“When I get there, it’s hard to feel like—well, this is gonna sound fucking crazy, but—I don’t feel quite part of reality, and. That’s scary.”

“Sounds like it would be.”

“So in the past, I just,” Louis catches himself, tongue in his teeth, “em. I mean I thought in the moment I should just do it.” He shrugs. “I can be a bit impulsive.”

Harry offers him a smile, and it’s enough that Louis knows he won’t pry any further. The relief that floods him is almost instant, the dimples in his cheek a gentle opiate.

“I know,” Harry says, and nudges Louis’ cheek with a bent forefinger. “It’s part of the reason you’re so amazing to watch.”

Louis frowns. “Watch? What, have you taken to stalking me? Is that it?”

“No,” Harry’s hands jump out, “not at all! Not a stalker. Promise.” The burn beneath the band-aid pulses, still aching dully. Louis can see a brush of burn on Harry’s cheeks, a blush that’s as wild as his eyes.

“Mhm,” Louis nods, slow, eyebrows raised.

“I just mean…” Harry runs a hand through his hair. He’s nervous, and it’s endearing, because men have always sought out Louis, always played their cards a little harshly—he’s not known anything as gentle as the look on Harry’s face when he talks to him.

He thinks about when he first arrived at Liam’s, how much he resented Harry for being so bloody careful around him all the time, but it doesn’t sting the same anymore. In a way, it’s the only reminder Louis has that something happened to him. Something that changed him, something that deserves a little more softness.

Harry’s hand comes to rest, gentle, at the side of Louis’ face. His thumb traces across his cheekbone, the pad of it calloused from his jewelry work. “You’ve got this thing about you,” Harry says.

“A good thing, then?” Louis jokes.

“Yeah,” Harry nods, dropping his hand, his smile bright and small. “A very good thing.”

 

 

✿

 

 

The windows stay open and the air stays hot.

Louis learns how Harry takes his tea, how Harry prefers to sing the Blues when he thinks the apartment is empty, how there’s a hole in his shirt from when he lit himself on fire with the blowtorch.

Sometimes Louis mentions Arnaud.

Harry doesn’t ask him about it, doesn’t press him for more. In this way Arnaud begins to feel like a childhood friend. A character in a mythology that Louis is beginning to forget.

 

 

✿

 

 

“There’s nothing to it,” Liam soothes, “promise. It’s all electronic, so, just gotta press the button,” his forefinger taps against the screen, “then there’s the price. You tell them, they pay, it’s all set.”

“Alright,” Louis nods, “easy enough.”

Liam smiles, rubs between his shoulder blades. “It’s not forever, Tommo. Just until you feel ready.”

“Just…dunno how long that’ll be, that’s all.”

“Well,” Liam considers, “does it help to say green is a good color on you?”

“Yeah, can’t hurt.”

“Green looks lovely on you.”

“That’s sweet of you,” Louis teases. He pinches the swell of Liam’s cheek, eyes drawn in tight from his smile. Liam swats his hand away.

“Alright, enough of that,” Liam laughs. He pulls his hat on, the perfect picture of a hard-working citizen. “I’m gonna check inventory real quick, can you handle the front for a few minutes?”

“Yeah, of course,” Louis nods. “I’m not totally useless.”

“You sure about that?”

Louis squints at him. “Are you quite finished?”

“I think I am,” Liam smiles. “Be back in a few.”

Then he goes, sneakers squeaking against the freshly washed floor. He disappears behind a narrow door, which looks like a bathroom but isn’t a bathroom and apparently Louis will have to inform customers of that on the daily. That is about as exciting as it gets.

The mall this early is dead empty. Only a few people stroll by, obviously not interested in pressed beet juice because who the fuck wants to drink beets for breakfast? Louis anticipates the businessmen that arrive, sweat still a thin sheen on their foreheads from the gym that morning.

It’s quite possibly the easiest job he’s ever had—considering back in St. Germain he worked at an Artisan Boulangerie and had to bake most of the specialty items himself.

There was a warmth to the place, a yellowed tone to the lighting, even when Spring finally arrived and all the windows and doors could stay open. Paris was always different than the postcards, until the barren Tuileries garden began to bloom, and Parisians sun-bathed in those kelly green chairs, and there was never any air conditioning so the smell stuck to everything.

It’s not that London isn’t on its own charming, dingy—but Louis knows he won’t stay forever, that he’ll have to find someplace safe where the air is just as warm and the front doors are unlocked.

He briefly imagines a seaside, somewhere grey at the right time of year, like Maine, his jeans cuffed and rolled up past the ankle, feet slipping off a rock to stand in the cold water. But the wind would be warm, it would taste like a part of childhood Louis had forgotten. Harry’s laugh plays in the background, a low, polite rumbling over and over that curls its fingers around Louis’ waist.

It’s not that Harry would really be there, he tells himself, but the thought is nice, the whole daydream too captivating to question.

He’s shaken from the image when a muddled profile of a person comes into view—they’re looking at the menu posted outside and trying to decide if they want to start their morning this way.

Louis thinks if they’ve already made it this far, they’ll probably end up giving in to the weird health craze.

When the man enters, Louis’ spine locks. He jumps off the back counter where he was leaning, hands falling to his side.

They say it’s like that: when you see someone that looks like them, it triggers intense, emotional reactions, the body seizes up, begins to sweat, and Louis knows those things happen to other people, but he’s been doing better, it shouldn’t happen for him.

But it does.

It’s the man’s eyes, the same brown-and-kind softness to them as Arnaud. His were always watery as though he’d been crying, though never red, just two polished marbles that fixed him with such undeniable affection. Undeniable back then, at least.

They’ve made eye contact and Louis knows what comes next and his fingers are already gripping the edge. _Hello, how are you, what can I get you today, sir?_

“Hi,” the man greets, very blunt, eyes still soft.

Louis drifts to the front counter and swallows. He has to swallow again because the back of his throat is bone dry, and he stammers over a “Hi” and he hates it. _Calm down, it’s not him. It’s not him, fucking calm down._

“What can I get you today, sir?” They look nothing alike.

“Do you guys make, like, that fresh squeezed orange juice?”

“Y-yeah,” Louis nods. _Mon chou, tu fais bien jus d’orange._

“Is it like pre-made, or…”

“No, we,” Louis shuts his eyes, black dots spotting his vision around the edges. _Mon chou._ He keeps one hand on the ledge, knuckles white. “We cut up some oranges. And. Squeeze them.” Hands around a throat.

“Ah, so it’s got pulp, then?” _I’ll make it good for you, chérie._

 _I’ll make it so good._ “Yeah.”

“I hate that stuff.”

He’s nice—he’s making conversation, and another Louis would join him, but that Louis’ been peeled off the surface of his skin, that Louis was scalped and taken time with, with hands he trusted, and eyes—

“Well…” The man looks down and away, and Louis wonders how much time he just lost, if his face was at all as terrified as he feels. “Have a good day.”

“You too,” Louis replies, faint and out-of-body. He doesn’t watch him leave.

His fingers untie the apron, absent, legs already carrying him to the small door. He pushes though to the other side and sees Liam on his phone.

Liam looks up at him, and immediately stands up straighter, phone gone limp in his hand. “Lou? Alright?”

There’s no way to say it so he doesn’t.

It only takes another second before Louis is enveloped in Liam’s arms, trembling and weak-kneed. He hears Liam try to tell him to breathe but it doesn’t seem possible.

They stay there in the cold, cement storeroom until Louis stops feeling the ghost of those eyes on his skin.

 

 

✿

 

 

They’re sitting on the couch, all three of them. Liam looks over the numbers and figures from that month. Louis reads “A Season in Hell” with Harry’s notes in the margins, his knuckles brushing to Harry’s each time they pass the book to each other—but it’s nothing.

 

 

✿

 

 

“I could do something with real estate.”

Liam looks up from his newspaper, steam off the top of his tea rising and fracturing in the air. “Think so?” He looks back down at his reading. “You have the personality for it, that’s for sure.”

“Can’t imagine what you mean by that, love.”

Louis clicks on another apartment ad. This one’s in Hyde Park, heating and hot water included in the price. It’s unfurnished, but Louis is low maintenance and gets a discount on pre-packaged meals at the juice shop. It’s still £375 a week—right now Louis is getting paid bi-weekly. It might work.

“Am I going to get a raise anytime soon?”

“Probably not,” Liam says.

“Can’t pull any strings?”

The newspaper crinkles, Liam folding it carefully. He regards Louis with a glint in his otherwise kind, gold eyes. “Just ring them up, tell them you want to work more hours. I heard Frank is being pressured on his way out.”

“That’s tragic,” Louis clicks on the photo gallery. He hums thoughtfully. More hours means more money, which means he could even contact his old dealer again. “He will be sorely missed, I’m sure. Now Li, come look at this flat.”

 

 

✿

 

 

Most nights, the three of them will catch a drink at the local pub after Liam finishes work. It’s become routine. Now that Louis’ working four days a week, he hardly ever sees Harry during the day except for Friday’s, when they both take off.

Even on Fridays, Harry’s involved in his work more often than not—something that might have annoyed him before, you know, people that can’t find the time to have fun away from their responsibilities.

Instead it leaves a sick twist in his chest, like a hand is pressing down on him. The truth is that he loves to watch Harry work on a new design, he does, but—he knows that part of him is envious, too. He can’t work at the juice shop forever and it’s starting to hit him that he doesn’t really know what he’s good at.

He hears Harry’s soft sketching, the pencil swiping broad, practiced lines on the paper, when he quietly comes into the flat.

It smells overwhelmingly of air freshener.

“Hey,” he murmurs. Harry still jumps, breaks the pencil point. Louis winces, “Sorry, mate. I tried to be quiet about it.”

Then Harry turns around, and Louis’ breath catches.

He’s disheveled, hair curling wildly below his ears, a strand having fallen across his face and resting in the slope of his cheek. There’s a bit of stubble collected at his chin, and his irises are a heightened green, only because the rest of his eye is fuzzy with pink.

Louis laughs immediately. “Look at you.” Harry’s responding smile is unabashed, dopey, purely for the two of them.

He gestures to the end of the table, where a bowl sits, still packed with weed. “Want some?” Louis’ smile stretches his skin.

“I do think I’ll have to keep you, Curly.”

 

 

✿

 

 

Pink dusk arrives on the cusp of another silence. Harry’s bowl is filled with ash, now, and the smell of weed is sweet with the freshener. Louis can’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed.

Harry’s pencil at the paper. His skin hot where Louis is pressed up against him, their chairs angled towards each other, Louis’ feet tucked under him. He’d never admit to it, but there is always a warmth to Harry that draws him in.

 _Moth to a flame,_ he thinks. Then he covers his mouth with a shy hand, laughing through the ridiculousness of it. Harry turns his head to him, already smiling, and he’s so close.

“What,” Harry laughs, “why are you laughing?” He regards his sketch. “S’it really look that awful?”

“No,” Louis bumps his head to his shoulder, laughter subsiding, “no I was just thinking that—you’re always really warm, aren’t you?” His nose is pressed against the line of Harry’s bicep.

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry nods. He thinks about it. “I have to sleep naked all the time.”

Louis whips his head up, his eyes shining from having laughed so much in the span of time he’s sat here. “Of course you do,” he says, loudly, “otherwise you’d sweat through the bed, eh?”

“I’d start a flood,” Harry agrees, just as loudly.

“Then what’d the rest of us do? Build an ark, I s’pose.” Louis flattens his hand on the table. Harry starts tapping the pencil down between the spaces his fingers leave. The beat leaves them both unfocused for a moment.

“Y’know the cup song,” Harry asks.

“Yeah.”

“We should make a song out of this.” Harry bumps Louis’ finger with the eraser.

When Louis tilts his head to suggest lyrics, all along the lines of his curly hair and drowning the world in his sweat, Harry is already looking at him. Louis can see all the imperfections this close and he wills them to take effect, to make Louis somehow disgusted by Harry.

It’s no use, though. There was never a chance in hell.

Harry’s smile evens out to a placid mouth, lips loose around his words, “What do you think of this one?” Then he tears himself away, eyes the last thing to leave Louis’ face, and Louis feels cold.

The sketch is a bunch of flowers, their petals shaded. They’re grouped close together, in what Louis knows must be a future bracelet.

“I like flowers,” Louis sighs.

“Me too,” Harry says. He nudges one of them with his thumb nail. “I’ve been wanting to start carving bone. Polishing it. Not that I don’t like enamel.” Louis runs his finger over one of the roses. He always wanted to be able to do this—to even make sketches look like expensive pieces of art.

There was never much time to learn how to draw, and Arnaud was the painter, anyways. In the beginning he always painted mornings, rose-tinted dawns, a freshly risen sun. He seemed attracted to the light, and, maybe it’s because he never knew any of it himself. Louis blinks it away. He touches Harry’s wrist.

“You just…like bone more?”

“Yeah,” Harry confirms. “It’s just, you have to bleach it, and polish it, and I always thought that was kind of wrong. To make something already incredible, prettier, but. I spend hours practicing.” He gestures to the bracelet. “Hopefully it’ll pay off and I can do this tomorrow.”

Louis stills. “Can I keep this,” he asks. Then, hurriedly, “if that’s alright?”

Harry glances at him, “Course. I have a million others of these.” He stands and reaches for his book-bag, pulling out a sketchpad for Louis to see. It feels too private.

Louis locks eyes with Harry, tacitly asking for permission to look, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. “Go on,” Harry murmurs. He checks his watch. “Liam’ll be back soon, so I’m gonna start dinner.”

They nod at each other, Louis’ finger lifting the sketchpad open. He tries to catch Harry’s face before he goes, but all he sees are the long lines of his shoulders, the hands covered in graphite.

There are endless pages of sketched stone, enamel, and structural concepts on different pieces. They’re not just concepts though, they’re—they’re breathtaking. The amount of detail to them, Harry’s explanations in the margins for what they symbolize, what a particular stone can do for the piece—it’s incredible, and it’s sobering.

Louis tries to make note of what Harry likes, what he sketches the most out of anything. Sometimes Harry writes notes next to the small drawings, like “cost effective?” or one—next to a newer sketch—“good enough?”

It swirls in front of him like smoke. Good enough.

He closes the sketchpad, head too cloudy to think. Part of him wishes Harry was still sitting next to him, that he could touch him and let that say everything. Louis stands, the sound of oil in a pan hissing as he walks towards the kitchen.

Harry’s humming something, occasionally getting caught on the lower notes. He briefly regards Louis in the doorway. His bare foot taps against the floor while he chops up a red pepper. “So?”

“You really love this stuff, don’t you, Curly?”

He smiles, cradling the strips of pepper to the knife and dropping them in the pan. “Yeah,” he says, turning towards Louis, “I do.”

“What…” Louis looks around the kitchen. There’s a bare spot of counter perfect for a quick sit, and he’s too curious to ever dampen down his first impulses. He hops up on the countertop. “What made you start doing all this?”

“My grandmother,” Harry replies, fondness in his tone. He opens the fridge and takes out a package of chicken, a yellow pepper. “People hold onto childhood pretty tightly, I know,” he shrugs, “but that’s why I started.”

“No, that’s…” Louis swallows. “That’s great, Harry. It’s a great reason to start. She was around a lot, then, in your childhood?”

“She had a house on the same block as us,” he explains. The knife clicks against the cutting board, steam rolling off the pan. It smells amazing. “She’d come over and watch us when mum went off to work. She wore this long string of pearls. Lots of cool rings.” Then he stills, very suddenly. “My father died when I was about three or four,” Harry continues chopping. “I don’t remember him, to be honest.”

Louis’ stomach drops. “Harry,” he rasps, wanting it to be quiet, “I’m so sorry.”

Harry turns over his shoulder to send Louis a dimpled smile—it’s the one that he pushes in tense situations, when he’s arguing over the phone with a client or mumbling about the enamel he broke the day before. “S’alright, Lou,” the name rolling off his tongue, “I don’t remember anything, so. Kind of hard to miss what you never knew.”

“I get it, you know,” Louis whispers. He fixes his eyes on the ground, his feet dangling off the countertop. “My dad, he—he died when I was just entering my A levels.” Harry’s knife clanks against the board, but it’s the click of the gas stove turning off that makes Louis look up at him again.

Harry is faced fully towards him, mouth slack and soft in pity, and he wants to stop bringing that look out of him, the same one he had when Louis showed up at Liam’s door not two months ago.

“I’m sorry,” Harry’s mouth barely even moves, his nostrils flaring out. “You deserve—so much better than what you’ve got.”

Louis can’t breathe. There’s a second where something stirs, a tuft of air from the open window, his skin nervously shaking beneath Harry’s eyes, and he thinks, _he’s going to walk to me, he’s going to walk right up to me and do it._

When that starts to seem real, Louis rushes out instantly, “Harry, it’s.” The tone of his voice is too rough for what just passed between them. “It’s,” he exhales, “it’s fine.”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, finally— _finally_ breaking their eye contact, “it’s not.”

They fall into companionable silence, Harry finishing what seems to be some fancy stir-fry. As he starts boiling the rice, Louis notices how large his hands are, and it sends a sharp jolt down his spine. The box looks small in his palm, his fingers almost wrapped around it entirely.

He’s speaking before his brain can catch up to him, “How do you manage to make such delicate stuff with gigantic hands like that?”

Harry whirls around, eyebrows high into his hairline, a playful light in his eyes. “M’not clumsy with my hands,” he assures, turning back, “quite the contrary, actually.” Louis doesn’t miss the way his voice dips down, how his hips cock to the left. “I’m clumsy with everything else, though.”

“I can see that,” Louis teases. Harry sends him another glare before shooing him out of the kitchen, something about him being distracting.

Louis knows what they’re doing, he’s done it a million times before with other men. It’s so fragile, all of it, and Louis wants to gnash at it with his teeth. He wants the thread to fray and break, but he wants Harry to do it, he’s tired of dragging all the badness behind him and being the one to ruin.

 _It doesn’t have to be ruined,_ he thinks. _It doesn’t have to be._

But it’s too much to think about right now. Two months means nothing, he’s still fucked up, he still can’t—function if he sees anyone that even resembles Arnaud. How can they keep asking so much of him? He wants to go back to being normal, going on dates and having a quick fuck, but the thought of anyone touching him—

He picks at an uneven splotch of paint on the wall.

The worst part is, he realizes, is that Harry isn’t asking for anything. He’s just there.

Louis wishes he would just ask. That he’d ask for the whole world so Louis can deny it to him, can tell him how they need to stop before they both walk away with third-degree burns. He thinks of his dream, touches his fingers to his lips.

 

 

✿

 

 

Louis drops his bag on the floor of the flat.

It’s open, a window covering the wall that faces the door. There’s a couch left over from someone else, but other than that—it’s empty. Unfurnished.

He can see all corners of the room, the white daylight touching everything gently. There’s nothing to hide behind.

Windows open, Louis cooks pot noodles for himself and smokes on the floor. He lies on his back, fingers drumming idly on his ribcage. Curious, he reaches under his shirt, pinches around the hips that had grown sharper in the past few months. Even in the time he’s been at Liam’s, that bit of skin is softer, plush.

A woman walks by on the street below, the sound of her chatty French instantly recognizable and familiar. Louis closes his eyes.

 

 

✿

 

 

The White Bone is, from the outside, all white wood and glass. It’s located at the corner of a heavy cement wall, small and unassuming. The shop itself seems constantly open and friendly to browsing customers, window-shoppers. In this way, it’s exactly like Harry.

He knocks at the side of the doorway, Harry in the middle of arranging a flower centerpiece on one of the display tables. Harry calls, “I’ll be with you in a moment!”

Louis suppresses a smile. “It’s a nice little place you’ve got, here, Hazza.”

Harry immediately spins around, hands still muddled in the bouquet of white gardenias. His grin is childish, as though caught out. “Louis. Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoes. “The White Bone sounds like the name of a pub.”

Harry laughs, running a hand through his hair. He leans slightly against the display table, careful of the pieces laid out, there. “Never thought of that, honestly.”

“Good thing you have me to think of it for you,” Louis says.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “Good thing.” Louis closes the distance between them, the gardenias now mildly intoxicating.

“So, what’s got to get sold, today?”

This snaps Harry out of his reverie. “Well,” he says, putting-on-airs, “I’ve got these two on hold for a couple,” he points out two rings, more like bands of white enamel. “And—a young girl’s coming in today to get something for her mum. So I’m gonna recommend this one,” he holds up a bracelet, bound together with string, and adorned with pale stones, polished and smooth. In the center is one blue enamel, which Louis can see has an eye carved into it.

“Wow,” Louis exhales. He touches the blue stone lightly. “That’s so cool, Haz. She’s gonna love it.”

“Hope so,” Harry smiles. “Sort of made it with her in mind.”

Louis peers down at the expanse of the table, which he thought might be filled with more jewelry. All the hole-in-the-wall shops seem to be overflowing with product, but Harry’s is noticeably sparse. It’s not that he didn’t consider it, but it occurs to Louis now that Harry might actually be doing quite well for himself.

It’s then that he sees it. He inhales sharply.

Harry hovers over his shoulder. “Like any of ‘em?”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, caught at the edge of a smile. “I like that one.” He runs his fingertips across the carved enamel, dipping in where the petals are polished.

“Oh,” Harry’s brow furrows. His fingers reach out to it and brush against Louis’, startling him. He mumbles a quiet, “Sorry,” before holding the bracelet in his palm.

It’s similar to the one for the girl’s mother, but the only piece of enamel is the blue in the middle, carved into an eye. The rest is polished bone—like the flowers Louis had seen in Harry’s sketchbook.

Harry regards it, face relaxing into something ethereal. “It’s an evil-eye,” he explains, holding it up to show Louis. “The blue stone in the middle is, anyways. Well. Supposed to be. That’s what I’ve been working on, lately. The theme.”

“I get it, love,” Louis says. “But if you don’t mind me asking, why would you want to carry something evil around?”

“Well,” Harry laughs, ducks his head, “it’s not really, like, evil. I was raised Jewish, and um, the evil eye is the source of all the bad things in the world,” Harry bites his lip. “So you wear—they’re called talismans. You wear ‘em, and it’s supposed to keep away the bad things,” he murmurs. “Only invite the good.”

Louis’ breath stutters out a quiet, “Oh.” He nods. “Good concept.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a fairly large bracelet, polished white and curved gracefully. Harry follows his gaze.

“You like that one?” He points to it.

“Yeah, it’s simple.”

“Try it on,” Harry suggests. He hands it to Louis, who pries it over his knuckles and lets it fall down his wrist.

“S’a bit big, innit?”

“Your wrists are small,” Harry observes. “It looks nice on them.”

Louis beams. “Thanks. It’s a beautiful piece. I’m sure whoever it’s for will love it.”

“Um, it’s not really for anyone,” Harry says. He looks at Louis expectantly. “It’s actually—um, I was gonna toss it.”

“What!” Louis exclaims, reaching for the bracelet protectively. “Why on earth would you do such a thing?”

Harry’s smile is blinding. “I messed up the interior engraving,” he shrugs. “When it comes to the fancy cursive stuff I find I don’t have as steady a hand as I used to.”

Louis turns the bracelet over in his palm. His heart drops in his throat.

“For the fallen man who…suffers and still dreams,” Louis reads. “That’s—”

“It’s from a poem,” Harry says, as if Louis didn’t know, as if Louis didn’t spend every night for the past two months reading and re-reading it, translating it a million different ways.

“Yes,” Louis smiles, reverent, “it is. Pour l'homme terrassé qui rêve encore et souffre.”

Harry steps back, only slight enough to catch Louis’ gaze. His chest heaves, so heavy, Louis thinks. They look at each other.

“You know it?”

“I know it,” Louis confirms, “Fleurs du Mal is the only thing I brought with me from Paris, besides a blue jumper.”

“It’s…” Harry bites his lip. “There’s so many translations, I didn’t know which one I wanted to use.”

Louis nods, understanding. “I’ve tried to translate it meself. I get it.”

“It’s like, one part of one translation seems to work so well, but then the other part…” Harry trails off, eyes bright and fixed completely on Louis.

“Doesn’t quite cut it?”

“Exactly,” Harry says, glowing. His eyes flick between Louis’ eyes and his lips. “I wish I knew French. So I could just—write those words, instead.”

“You still can,” Louis suggests. “No one’s the wiser.”

“It’s not real, then,” Harry shakes his head. He crosses back behind the counter. “I can’t put words I don’t understand on a piece of jewelry just to seem interesting.”

“Mate, it’s the language that’s interesting,” Louis purses his lips. He follows him to the counter and stands on the other side to face him. “Listen. ’T’sais c’qui m’rend heureux?’ How did that sound?”

“Um,” Harry blinks. He fumbles with his shirt, “it sounded. Good.”

“Right,” Louis laughs. “It sounds good because that’s what French does as a language. It’s beautiful. Makes anything boring sound good. Like ‘Dior Homme.’ Want to know what that means?”

“Dior something, obviously,” Harry smiles.

“Dior man,” Louis states flatly. “It literally means Dior Man.” Harry’s resounding laugh is blunt, sudden, he briefly covers his mouth in embarrassment. Louis watches his face for a moment.

“Perfect,” Harry beams. “I’ll put Dior Man on the next one.”

“Dior homme,” Louis corrects, light. “Like ohm, just not as solid an O. Or um.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “You want me to repeat it? Like, in Sunday school?”

“Just try,” Louis suggests. “Dior homme.”

“Dior homme,” Harry drawls. It’s terrible French, but the low candor of his voice always makes Louis feel a little dizzy, and hearing it in French is even worse.

He breathes, “Very good.”

“It wasn’t good at all,” Harry smiles, shuffling designs together, “but thanks.” He meets Louis’ eye and winks, “Professor Tomlinson.”

“Cheeky,” Louis presses his lips together, barely containing his smile.

“You’d be great at that, you know,” Harry says, his hands delicately placing the designs in a bright red folder.

“At what?”

“Teaching French. You could, like, teach kids elementary French on the side. Or tutor people.”

“Like yourself?” Louis bites his lip on a smile, letting it card through his teeth. Harry watches him do it—but realizes it too late. When he looks away, blinking rapidly, he exhales on a long “Um.”

“What,” Louis grins, “is it that bad of a prospect for you?”

Harry considers. “No, no. I mean,” he shakes his head, “Yeah. I’d take lessons from you.”

“Well,” Louis sighs, ready to abandon their closeness but still not moving from where he stands, “I guess I’d better go. I have to drop off groceries at the flat.”

“Are you busy, later?”

Louis considers it, briefly, making a show of tapping his forefinger to his chin. “Yes, actually, I was planning on slumming at me mate’s and eating dinner with them.”

Harry smiles. “I’ll see you there.”

“See you,” Louis says, pleasantly through his teeth, looking back over his shoulder once to catch Harry’s eyes. He frowns when he sees Harry walking to the back room instead—but it’s nothing.

The memory of Harry’s skin lingers on his fingertips, crackling like static all the way home.

 

 

✿

 

 

Sometime between the “family dinners,” which Liam coined, and the days spent leaning over Harry’s chair, granting small suggestions on a new piece when he asks—a feeling starts low, at the base of his spine.

Louis tells himself, digs his fingers into his eyes, _Not now. Please, not now._

But Harry is sweet all over, his lips spun-candy in the summertime, and Louis loses minutes of his day imagining what it might be like if he sucked them down to their center.

 

✿

 

 

  

 

✿

 

 

“Alright, Hazza,” Louis throws himself down on the futon and sniffles into the blue blanket. “I’m ready for the cuddling to begin.”

Harry stands over him, long and lean and illuminated by the light from the large window. That one curl falls into his eyes. He teases, “No cuppa? Not even a bedtime story?”

“Not tonight,” Louis waves his hand. “Come have a lie down.”

Harry pulls his shirt over his head, and Louis stills.

There’s a butterfly tattoo in between his ribs—it’s the most striking, but aside from that, he’s covered in tattoos. His hips are fleshy, the skin sitting on them, dipping into a v that disappears beneath his shorts. A pair of laurels frame the imprint, and Louis’ face grows hot, hands itching with all the ways he’d leave his own.

When he meets Harry’s eyes, he’s smiling at him. Louis abruptly leans back on the bed, hands behind his head. He closes his eyes.

It takes a moment before he feels Harry drops to his knees, mindful of the floor. He sighs as he flops beside Louis, head just barely staying on the edge. “Are you ever going to invest in a proper bed?”

“Don’t need one,” Louis murmurs, eyes still closed. He moves his fingers, laces them together over his chest instead. Harry’s breath is hot next to him, his mouth angled at his neck. They speak in hushed tones in the dark.

“Everyone needs a proper bed. With goose feather pillows and Egyptian cotton high thread count.”

“How very posh.”

“Mm,” Harry hums.

It’s not as warm with the open window, the summer cool and charitable at night. But Harry’s arm is pressed up against his and every inch of the skin is burning, like before, in his dream.

“Don’t sleep enough to need one, though.”

“Maybe you don’t sleep enough because you don’t have one.” Louis lifts his head to look at him. “I’m joking,” Harry ruffles his hair.

Louis expects him to move his hand, but he doesn’t, and he almost thinks he’s going to fall asleep like this, Harry’s fingers on his scalp, lightly scratching, until Harry breaks the silence. “I like your hair like this.”

“Like what?”

“All soft and feathery,” Harry’s finger tracing across his cheekbone. “Like an angel wing.”

Louis buries his nose into Harry’s shoulder, hums high in the back of his throat to contain a laugh, “What a catch you are.”

Harry chuckles, light, and still the skin burns.

After a few minutes, Louis’ sure that Harry has fallen asleep. He can sense how far his chest pulls down when he breathes, how consistent his breaths are. Opening his eyes, Louis tries to see Harry’s face in the dark, but all he can see is the slope of his nose where the light catches.

“Hazza,” Louis whispers. His hand comes up to scratch at Harry’s arm.

“Hm?”

“Thank you for coming tonight.”

“Lou,” Harry smiles, his arm extending to get under Louis’ shoulder, stroke at the skin of his back. “It’s really nothing.”

“That’s the thing, though,” Louis says. “It’s not. I don’t get to bed easy because,” he sucks in air. “I don’t feel safe. S’why I don’t even have any furniture, really. I don’t want anything he can hide behind.”

Something passes over. It’s minutes before Harry responds, his hand all the while tracing over Louis’ skin. They stay like this, hands gentle with each other, as though too much pressure might break them.

“Do you feel safe right now?”

“I do,” Louis mumbles into his neck. “Honestly, I…” Louis bites his lip, glad to be concealed in the dark, “I felt safe with you right away.”

He can feel Harry stiffen and relax, the hand on his back pressing firm against him. Louis feels the tips of his fingers scratch lightly there. “I’m glad, Lou.”

“Y’know, Haz,” Louis says, sitting up further, “I started—em, I filled out an application. For this part-time, french tutoring thing.”

“What?” The sheets shift against Harry’s movement. Louis can smell his breath, still curious about how many candies Harry must eat for it to always smell that way. “Louis, that’s ace. Where’s the job?”

“S’just for the rest of the summer,” Louis explains. He slides a finger down the length of Harry’s hand, just before his thumb. Harry’s hand opens under the contact. “The guy they wanted to do it, I guess, dropped out. Very French move, to be honest.”

“Is it like, all adults?”

“Yeah, middle-aged adults. Old people traveling to France for vacation.”

“With their trusted fanny packs,” Harry’s smile is evident.

“Yes, and superior French, after I’m done with them,” Louis runs his finger over the lines of Harry’s palm. “They’re going to order their crepe completely in French and be very impressive.”

“You’re gonna smash it,” Harry murmurs. His thumb catches at the side of Louis’ hand, tracing it in kind. Louis laughs, small, and at that Harry says, “I’m serious. They’ll love you. All the old ladies will love you.”

“They already do,” Louis smiles. The tension of their touch finally becomes overwhelming. He links their fingers together, Harry sighing contentedly. “Got one named Sandy that comes into the shop just to ask me if I’ve got myself a bird, yet.”

Harry hums, leans forward to knock his forehead to Louis’. “What do you say?”

“I tell her I’m very focused on my career.”

“Ah, yes.” Harry sits back again, “Your career in juice presses.”

“Exactly.”

Louis leans back onto the bed, hand coming up to suppress a yawn to the front of his mouth. His hand searches out for Harry in the dark to find him curled away from him on his side.

He pauses for a moment, unsure if he’s allowed much, but—

“You can cuddle me, if y’want,” Harry slurs. “I like being the little spoon.”

“You’re impossible,” Louis giggles into his neck, his leg sliding between Harry’s. He wraps his arms around his waist, Harry shifting back into him. Louis falls asleep much too soon, smile still faint in the lines on his face.

 

 

✿

 

 

In the morning, Louis hovers above Harry’s face, caught between feeling weird and being unable to draw away from watching him. His mouth twitches, then his eyes, which shift around beneath his milk-white eyelids.

The daytime filters in through the window and it sticks to Harry so easily, the small beginnings of stubble around his lips, gathered at the bottom of his chin. Then Harry wakes, slowly, and Louis sees his eyes open to him.

He smiles, languid like he’s high off something, and Louis is in the palm of his hand.

 

 

✿

 

 

Louis’ chest heaves, arms swinging loosely by his sides. The headband Liam lent him does little to deter fly-away hairs from clinging to his forehead. He can feel the swell around his kneecaps from exertion he’s not used to, but Liam’s right, he feels less suffocated out here in the first pink light of day.

He loves the dawn.

Liam’s just ahead at a curve in the path, hands on his knees, breathing deeply. “How d’you feel, then?” Louis approaches, slowing down to a stop.

It’s nice, even the sweat in the crease of his back, down his neck. There’s a chill that dries it each time the wind picks up. When he used to play footie, he loved that feeling, of his skin cooling.

“I feel,” Louis licks the salt off his lips, “better. You were right.”

“Wow,” Liam smiles, “didn’t think I’d ever hear those words out of your mouth.”

“Fuck off,” Louis pushes him. Liam staggers backwards, regains his balance. He’s still smiling, opening his arms for a hug. Louis couldn’t refuse him if he tried, so he allows Liam to hold him for a few moments before pinching the skin along his ribs.

“Ouch! Bloody hell,” he howls. “That’s sensitive!”

“No shit,” Louis laughs, “that’s the point.”

They take turns swiping at each other, dishing out playful jabs and headlocks. As the sun finally climbs higher, they rest on a cluster of rocks for a bit, letting the warmth wash over. Their conversation is light. It’s the first time Louis has felt normal since he came back to London. Liam grabs hold of a stick and writes his name in the dust.

“Have you thought much about, you know—seeing someone, yet?”

Louis looks at him. “I have, actually.”

This seems to surprise Liam, his eyebrows rising enough to suggest it. “Really?” Then he shakes his head a little, trying not to appear excited, but he’s transparent. He always has been.

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs. “Doc referred me to someone. I’ve got an appointment this Friday.”

“Lou,” Liam drops the twig to the ground. “Lou this is—such a huge step.”

With a noncommittal hum, Louis waves his comment away. “It’s time,” is all he says, standing up off the rock.

 

 

✿

 

 

Psychotherapy clinics always smell like anxiety—the sweat of clammy hands, disinfectant. The walls are always white and adorned with paintings only a middle-aged mum with an off-kilter artistic flair would consider buying. Louis’ ripped the skin off the side of his forefinger just waiting in the plush, green chair.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

When he reaches in to retrieve it, his fingers touch something unusually smooth. He knows what it is before he pulls the object out.

In his hands is a band of white bone. A ring. Louis lets it fall into the center of his palm and clutches it there, tightly. The dig of it in his skin allows him to breathe out his nerves, for a moment. Then he slides it onto his forefinger, sucking away the blood from the cuticle that’s accumulated.

He searches for his phone in his pocket, and looks at it to see two texts.

 

 **Boy**  
gooooooood luck Tommo !!! u’ve got this mate!! love u :-)

 

 **Haz**  
I was peeling an orange and the juice squirt directly into my eye. Thought you’d like to know. Good luck today x

 

“Louis Tomlinson?”

Louis’ head tilts up to regard a woman at the door. She has a slight frame, a kind face. Her eyes are a pale blue, framed by thick, black eyebrows. He notices she’s wearing jeans as he pockets his cell.

“That’s me,” he says.

“I’m Anna,” she holds out her hand to shake, a clipboard in the other. “Glad to finally meet you.”

Louis breathes out a small, “You too.”

“My office is just down the hall, the very last one on the left. Why don’t you go have a seat and I’ll be there in a minute?” Her smile is instantly comforting, and that’s another thing Louis remembers about clinics—they often have people that know how to smile properly.

“Alright,” he nods. She stands to the side to let him through, and the nervousness from before is back, but different. He fiddles with the ring on his finger, thinks of their texts as he comes up on her office.

There’s a pale blue couch atop a darkwood floor, a lamp on in the corner. London is its classic white-grey this afternoon, and the light that filters in through the sheer curtains casts the room into a strange surreality. Her desk is littered with papers, and this is somehow comforting. He sits on the couch.

After a minute he considers responding to Harry’s text, just to feel his presence somehow, but then he hears Anna’s shoes padding down the hall. He folds his hands in his lap, then swipes his hair across his forehead. He wonders if he should’ve shaved.

Anna’s breathy, “Sorry about that,” follows the sound of the door shutting. She pulls her jeans up as she sits down, then crosses her ankle over her knee. “So, Louis. Hi.”

“Hi,” he smiles. “Em—I’m not sure how to…” He trails off looking at her, her eyes unfocused, a bit dazed.

Suddenly she straightens, which startles him a little. “Oh! Right,” she swirls in her chair to the desk, opens what he assumes is his file, “it’s been a while since you’ve come to the clinic.” She pushes off the desk with her hands, her chair rolling back around to face him.

“Sorry,” she laughs again, a bit to herself, “I love this chair. It’s a lot of fun, and, well—you get it.”

“I do,” he nods, laughing with her. “So. Should I just start—talking, then?”

“Well,” Anna runs her bottom lip through her teeth. “In your file, you specified what you’re here for. What I want to know first is if you can tell me, in your own words, why you decided to come here.”

Louis picks at his skin, then thinks better of it. His fingers play with the ring again, welcoming a physical distraction. “I—I couldn’t say it at first,” he starts, “but I have said it out loud. If that’s what you mean.” He was angry that time, though, and only using it to hurt his friends. That’s not how he wanted it to be the first time he said it.

He pauses. “I just think I need to work up to it with you, to be honest.”

Anna nods. “Totally fine, Louis. We’ll go as slow as you need.”

“Thanks. It’s just…” Louis meets her eye, waits for her to lead him into another direction, but she doesn’t. She just looks at him plainly, with an attention he’s not used to. “Sometimes I feel like I dreamt it. Like it didn’t happen and I’m lying to myself.”

“What in particular makes you feel that way?”

Louis hates the lead-in’s, but there’s no other way to go about it. He’s either going to fight her and never make sense of it, or he can be honest and see what happens. He takes the middle road. “Not to be rude, but, is there any way we can just—talk normally? No weird therapist lead-ins, all that.”

She smiles. “It’s not rude at all. Sometimes I’m not sure how to start talking to a patient and it takes a while for me to figure it out. But I appreciate that you’re honest.” Anna closes the file resting on her lap. “So let’s get rid of this for right now. Tell me what you can about what you said, feeling like you’ve made it up.”

Louis shivers. “I dream about it.”

“How often?”

“Almost every night,” he admits, weakly. “It used to be worse, I’d be dreaming that I was doing something totally normal, like going to the bank, and he’d…come up behind me, push me in an alley.” Louis shrugs, tries to keep the emotions steady. “Things like that.”

“Were they all like that, then?”

“Yeah. It was basically just—same events, different places.”

“Do you ever dream about that night specifically,” Anna leans forward, legs uncrossing to steady her elbows on top of her knees. “Same place, details?”

“Yeah,” Louis nods. The ring is hot in his hands. “At least once a week.”

“Can you tell me what happens in this dream?”

Louis feels the question lodge in his throat. It’s not—he’s been able to live with the memory now for a while. He knows if he wanted to, he could tell her, and maybe then it wouldn’t feel so heavy, like a secret that wants to eat away at his insides slowly.

He reaches for the box of tissues on the side-table, already angry at needing them but unable to blink away the tears that come on instinct. Anna’s soft timbre lilts around him, “It’s okay, Louis. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to.”

But that’s just it.

“I do want to,” he shakes his head. “I want to say it so bad.”

Anna murmurs, “Take your time, Louis. It’s okay.”

Louis crumples the tissue in his hands. The memory bubbles up between his lungs, worming its way around his chest the way it does when he wakes up from another dream. He can taste the copper in his mouth, feel the heat of Arnaud’s breath at his neck. It’s anger, the block in his airway, the feeling of being suffocated. Louis clenches his jaw, forcing the words out in the open.

Anger is all that’s left. It’s not what he wants, but it’s a start.

 

✿

 

 

 

 

✿

 

 

Louis knocks on the door, exhausted from the amount of crying he did. He never had an issue with being emotional, but he preferred to keep it private, which is why he didn’t indulge therapists as a kid. Now it seems he’s grown less stubborn into adulthood, or—maybe he’s just stubborn about the right things.

The door clicks open to reveal Liam’s face, hair wet, the smell of body soap surrounding Louis as Liam drags him into a hug.

“Hello,” he laughs, feeling small against his chest.

“So proud of you,” Liam sing-songs, stepping away after a squeezing once. “You don’t look nearly as bad as I thought you would.”

Louis frowns. “Is that supposed to be a compliment, Liam?”

“It is,” Liam grins. “Now come on, then. We’ve opened up a bottle of wine and everything.”

“But aren’t I supposed to ride a donkey into Bethlehem?”

“Very funny,” Liam dismisses him. “Come on.”

There’s no reason for the butterflies to start fluttering about in his chest, but they do anyways. Louis tries to consider it excitement rather than some weird anxiety. It’s just dinner, it was just one session of therapy. He doesn’t know if he deserves to be optimistic about it just yet.

He pads further into the living room, catching a glimpse of Harry as he opens the fridge door, obstructing himself from view. “Hey, Hazza,” he calls.

Harry shuts the door, a tray filled with rough, folded dough in his hands. His smile curves up gradually as his eyes take every bit of Louis in. Under the intensity of his gaze, Louis fidgets.

“Get my text?”

“I did. What a nasty orange.” Harry hums in agreement. He steps closer to the kitchen doorway. “How’s your eye?”

Harry’s brushes butter over the dough, which looks thin and fine. There’s a small bowl near it filled with what looks like some type of jam.

“I’m partially blind now,” Harry deadpans. When he looks up at Louis, his face immediately changes and he chuckles to himself. “I’m joking,” he says softly, “I’m joking.”

“I can see that,” Louis smiles. “What have you got, there?”

“It’s a surprise,” Harry teases. Then he dips his finger on the side of the bowl, catching a stray run of jam on the lid. He holds it out for Louis. “Taste this.”

Louis wants to laugh. God, he’s going to laugh.

His tongue hits Harry’s finger before he can get his mouth properly around it, and when he does, Harry’s face tilts downwards, eyes focused on where Louis is now pulling off his skin agonizingly slow. It’s dramatic, even for him, but he’s been waiting for the air to change, for something between them to give way, cross a line.

It just about does it. Harry pops his finger in his mouth after, still looking at Louis with an intensity that embarrasses him.

“Strawberry,” Louis states.

“Mhm,” Harry nods. He turns away, just barely, his body still angled to Louis like he can’t help it. Louis itches to get his hands in Harry’s hair, tuck it into place, pull it out. “Now out of my kitchen.”

It breaks Louis from his thought. “What did I do this time?”

“It’s not what you did, but what you have to do,” Harry chimes. “Go help Liam set the table.”

 _“But mum,”_ Louis whines, clawing at Harry’s t’shirt that’s rucked around the belt in his jeans. Harry carefully sets the tray down and spins on his heels, his big hands anchoring Louis by the hips.

 _There we go,_ Louis thinks.

“Out,” Harry laughs into his hair, “you menace.”

Louis allows himself to be pushed out of the kitchen, heart pounding a hard fist against his chest. He’s standing alone in the living room, the table already set with glasses and plates. The wine bottle is unopened, and in a daze, Louis pours himself a glass.

His hand shakes.

Liam walks in, brisk, his face flushed from shaving. There are small bits of tissue around his chin. Louis almost chokes on his wine, “Liam, you’re too old not to know how to shave.”

“Save it, Tommo,” Liam holds up a hand, then uses it to help fix his hair in the mirror by the door. “I’ve got to bail on dinner tonight. Sorry, love.”

“Mhm,” Louis says, eyes slits over his glass. “And what would be so important as to remove you from my lovely company?”

“Work,” is his effortless answer.

“Work,” Louis echoes. “The juice shop needs you in a leather jacket?”

Liam stills. “What’s wrong with bringing some style to the world of pressed juice?”

Louis bubbles into his wine. “Right.” Then, mischief set in the lines of his teeth, Louis yells out, “Hazza, Liam has a date tonight!”

Harry’s dull, “What?” is only vaguely registered before Liam whirls around, stalking immediately to the table. Louis squeaks and jumps up onto the couch, careful with the small amount of wine still in his glass. “Don’t you dare spill wine on that couch!”

“If I do, it’s your fault!”

“I do not have a date. Take it back.”

“Okay,” Louis shrugs, keeps his laughter light to his own ears, “I take it back. Didn’t think you’d get so worked up over it.”

Harry emerges from the kitchen, apron tied tight over his body, a wooden spoon in one hand. “What’s this, then?”

“Liam’s got—” Louis stops himself and looks pointed at Liam, who returns the stare with equal enthusiasm. He hops down off the couch. “Liam’s got a business to run.”

Harry knits his brows. “Al…right,” he draws out. “Take it you want us to save you some leftovers?”

“Please,” Liam nods to him, his face changing just for Harry. A lot of people would do the same, it’s the effect Harry has. Liam glowers at Louis, but still hugs him tightly like before, kissing him on the temple. Louis exaggerates his disgust in wiping it off.

“Be good, kids,” Liam warns. He peeks his head through the doorway sliver, “wear a condom.” He manages to just miss Louis’ yelp, “Are you quite finished!”

The sound of the door shutting plunges the room into silence. “Guess he is,” Harry observes, calm and collected.

Louis leans into one hip and smiles. “Is the food ready, then?”

“Just about,” Harry grins. “Have a seat. I’ll fill up your plate.”

It’s a proper meal, nice silverware from Harry’s mother on proud display against the store-bought red napkins, the warm wood of the table. That typical sweet breeze lilts around, curling around Louis with its gentle hands. When Harry emerges from the kitchen, he’s carrying a small tray of pastries.

“Don’t eat one yet,” Harry advises, “I need to get the jam.”

“Is this the surprise?” Louis pulls out a chair to sit, looking up to see Harry has already disappeared back into the kitchen again. Unable to help himself to any of Harry’s cooking, especially if it’s being paraded around in front of his face, he pops one in his mouth.

It always happens this way, too. Taste or smell or sound.

He remembers when he and Arnaud would go out to eat at Au Trappiste, the warm glow of Châtelet’s outside tables at the brasseries so cozy. “You look very Parisian, mon chou,” Arnaud would say, watching Louis idly hold his cigarette, eat the brie and honey off a piece of toast.

And he would taste like it, the honey stuck to the bottom of his lip. Even later in the night, even on the nights it hurt. It was all brie and honey and—blood, there’s never going to be a night where he doesn’t see the blood trickling down his leg, the faded bruises of his face, a flowerbed—a flower field.

Louis grabs the end of the table and places himself there, in the poppies.

“Here’s the jam,” Harry exclaims, cutting off as soon as he sees Louis, Louis’ fingers digging into the top of the wood. “Lou?” He moves to his side, ever the quick-learner, and Louis can feel him where he kneels beside his chair, the touch of his hand to Louis’ thigh.

“Are you alright? What happened? What do you remember?”

 _Everything,_ Louis thinks.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, instead. “Just, the taste. It’s really good, Haz, Reminded me of Paris,” and he turns then to smile in Harry’s space, but Harry is—so close, his hand still firm on Louis' thigh and his mouth too close to grab at any air.

“You sure?” He doesn’t even see Harry’s lips move.

All Louis can see now is green, the glint across Harry’s iris. “Yeah,” Louis exhales, shallow. Harry’s breath is sweet, comes in small tufts against his mouth and it’s happening before Louis thinks to pull away.

Harry's lips are dry, but so, so soft. Like everything else about him, besides the pads of his fingers. Harry tastes like the French red wine, but less bitter at the end, and he smells like the gardenias as he always does. It’s brief, close-mouthed.

But Harry comes back again, takes his time, his lips pressing again to Louis’, another hand coming up to rest his thumb in that same spot underneath his cheekbone. There’s only Harry, his taste, the honey and the wine.

Louis winds his hands in Harry’s hair, moving to stand and bring Harry up with him. He forgot about Harry’s clumsiness, but is soon reminded when they move too quickly and Harry knocks forwards, caging Louis between his body and the table. The wine sloshes around in its glass.

“Oops,” Harry laughs, breathless, lips stretched in a smile.

“No worries, love,” Louis kisses against his top lip. Harry ducks in, the hand that leveraged his weight on the table now smoothing over Louis’ hip in a strange way, possessively but not insistent. Every inch of Harry is plastered against him, Louis’ head swimming with the heat of his mouth and his tongue when it gently slides in against his own.

It’s warm and wet and Louis tries to breathe, because it’s what he’s wanted, there’s no way he’s been able to run from this, but it’s getting to be too hot and it’s starting to stick to his neck, like big hands, capable hands.

Louis pulls off, dazed.

“Was that okay,” Harry murmurs, eyes so genuine and patient. They’re wet with a certain kind of kindness.

“It’s fine,” Louis croaks. He clears his throat. “Better than fine. I just—need to go slow, yeah?”

“Of course,” Harry nods his head, keeping eye contact, “I wouldn’t have wanted—I’m just glad I got to kiss you.” Harry grins, beside himself. “I really like kissing you.”

Louis runs his fingers over the swell of Harry’s bottom lip, feeling how it’s been pressed dry from kissing, though still soft. He leans forward, kisses a last time in the pale blue crescent underneath Harry’s eye. “Me too,” he whispers.

“I guess you liked the pastry,” Harry laughs.

“That was definitely the only reason,” Louis purses his lips into a smile, Harry’s hand dropping from his hip. “I would’ve been repulsed by you otherwise.”

“Good to know.”

“Also,” Louis sighs, sitting at his place, “if you want to keep inconspicuously dropping jewelry into my pocket, I wouldn’t mind it either.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿

 

 

After the plates are cleared, they split the rest of the wine. Louis gives Harry lessons in French, a kiss for every word that sounds as it’s meant, and the glow of their skin in the night is incredible, unbelievable.

Nothing could touch them. Nothing could ever touch them again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿

 

 

“Tell me a story.”

Louis leans up on his elbow, body stretched alongside the couch, Harry sitting below him. The bottles of wine rest, empty, on the floor.

“What do you want to hear, mon petit?”

“I want,” Harry licks his lips. “I want to hear about the boy in the flower field.”

“Hm,” Louis lets his fingers slide into Harry’s hair, thoughtful. “Will you tell me one afterwards?”

“Of course,” Harry promises.

“Alright,” Louis eases himself back down onto the couch, fingers still scratching against Harry’s scalp lightly. Harry makes a low, pleased noise in the back of his throat. “There was a boy,” Louis begins.

“A very small boy,” Harry offers.

“He was small at the beginning,” Louis corrects, gently. “He used to go to the flower field when he felt scared. In the summertime, it was covered with red poppies.”

“Poppies are beautiful.”

“One of the most beautiful, yeah. He liked how they looked from far away.”

“Was he always scared?”

“Sometimes,” Louis shuts his eyes, his hand stilling. “Sometimes his father did bad things, and it was scary.”

“Then what happened?”

Louis removes his hand. “Then they moved away from the field and all he had was the memory. But he still went there all the time, when bad things happened.”

There’s a small rush of air from Harry standing, then easing himself onto the couch next to Louis. His arms wrap around him, the cotton of his t-shirt thin enough to feel the warmth of Harry’s skin beneath it.

“Then what?”

“Then the boy met another boy,” the narrative flowing off his tongue, almost completely separate from himself, “and he forgot all about it.”

“Love can do that,” Harry murmurs into his shoulder.

“Yeah. Until it doesn’t. And then bad things happened. And then there wasn’t any good.”

“So he went back.”

“Yeah,” Louis tilts his nose into Harry’s. “But after he left the bad things, he still dreamt about the flower field.”

“What would he dream about?”

“The boy dreamt about…” Louis looks up at the ceiling, finally relaxing into Harry’s arms. “He dreamt about all the bad things. But sometimes another boy was there.” He looks at Harry, whose eyes have gone still.

“What would happen?”

“The boy would talk about all the good things that were possible,” Louis whispers. “And the boy started to believe him.”

Harry breathes through his nose, eyes big and unbelievable. They watch each other, skin tingling to touch, but nothing seems to be worth it to break the cord between them. Louis catalogs every flutter of his eyelashes, the way his bottom lip parts down before he speaks.

“Can I tell my story,” Harry asks.

“Yeah,” Louis nods, slight.

“There was a boy,” Harry says, so softly, eyes on Louis’ always, “who thought he was full of bad things.”

Louis can’t breathe. In the cascading darkness, less of Harry’s face is discernible. He can feel his eyelids dropping with the weight of the wine, Harry’s warmth.

“He thought he didn’t deserve the good, but,” Harry shakes his head, fingers sliding up and down Louis’ arm, “he just didn’t remember.”

“Remember what?” Louis' voice is small.

“That he was an angel,” Harry says. “Some angels come down to make sure there’s good things here, too.”

“How do you know,” Louis’ mouth twists, trying to hold back the sadness. “How do you know he’s like that?”

Harry’s legs slide in between his, pulling them tighter together. Louis winds his arm around Harry’s waist, turning his hips to allow him closer. “I see it when I look at him,” Harry whispers into his neck. He presses a kiss there. “I see it all the time.”

They fall asleep on the couch, pressed close, their bodies blurred together into one long, indiscernible shadow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿

 

 

_It seems like the sea, the wind casting the taste of salt across Louis’ mouth. It’s not only this, it’s a sweetness that stings, a lemon wedge, a beautiful lip bent as a cupid’s bow bends._

_Louis is standing in a flower field._

_There’s no name for the blue flower, but it smells like the gardenias Harry keeps in the shop. Sometimes their pollen stays on his skin and if Louis gets close—_

_He’s never close. It’s a dance. They’re dancing._

_Harry is across the field, twirling wildly as if Louis couldn’t see him plainly, as if the whole world wasn’t watching. They aren’t, he hears, this is a dream._

_Louis asks a patch of grass, “Where is Arnaud?”_

_“He’s not coming,” someone says._

_“What do you mean he’s not?”_

_It’s the same flower field, but much later in the day. He’s on his back, could almost disappear into the flower bed and no one would ever come to find him. Harry is next to him. He knows because he can hear his soft way of inhaling, when he accidentally holds his breath for too long and needs to take a large one to make up for it._

_“This feels real,” he tells Harry. “I want this to be real.”_

_“It can be real,” Harry says, because even in the dream Harry knows the answer right away._

_He blinks, and he’s on his back in the small flat in St. Germain. He knows this part of the dream. Arnaud should be on top of him, wanting to see him while they fuck._

_Instead his voice pours in from the doorway, leaning against it in Louis’ favorite outfit, the creme shirt that makes his skin seem gold, his eyes brown and velvet._

_“Why didn’t you tell anyone,” Arnaud asks._

_“Who would’ve believed me,” Louis meets his eyes. They’re mollified with tears, and since this is his dream, Louis takes them out of Arnaud’s head. They rest in his hands, marshmallows._

_They’re sitting in the poppy field._

_“Don’t you miss me, mon petit chou?”_

_“I miss you all the time.”_

_“You aren’t going to come back.”_

_“No,” Louis lies back on the ground. It’s warm, alive. Harry tucks a poppy behind his ear, attentive, brushing his fingers over Louis’ stomach._

_“See,” Harry smiles, and it’s so kind, it’s filling Louis’ chest to the brim, “you can still dream, Louis. You still dream of good things.”_

I love you, I love you, I love you, _Louis mouths, he wants to scream it but all that comes out is a whimper, a white flag—_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿

 

 

—Louis wakes up crying.

It’s not yet morning, the cornflower blue coating the room in a bizarre glow. Harry’s chest rises and falls beneath him, his arm a sure thing around Louis’ waist.

Harry.

His eyelashes tremble. He must be dreaming, himself.

Unable to show any sort of restraint, Louis lets himself be pulled into Harry’s side, as he often is. It would be nothing to stay here for another few hours, kiss small bruises into the side of Harry’s neck.

Louis’ thumb reaches up to trace the dip above Harry’s chin. He presses into it, Harry exhaling fully against him, his face tinted blue. He’s beautiful. He’s so beautiful.

His skin has goosebumps where it isn’t protected by Harry’s warmth, so he huddles in closer, settling under his arm like before.

For a few hours, there are no dreams.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿

 

 

Late morning brings a harsher light into the room.

Louis stands over Harry, still asleep, and drapes a blanket across his frame. If he has something to keep him warm, he might not wake up when he feels Louis isn’t there.

Even if Louis wanted this, all of this, the white bone, the big love, and he does, fuck, he wants it more than anything—there’s no way he could give it to Harry. It should have stopped hurting, the wound should have closed, but it hasn’t. It’s still bleeding all over everything.

He’s dizzy with love, the memory of Harry’s mouth on his.

Harry snores softly.

It’s not about being scared. It’s about being reasonable, doing the right thing. Eventually Louis would do something to Harry he couldn’t fix, and the thought of that boy breaking beneath him is too much to—it’s not fair. It’s not fair to Harry. He should be able to love someone that can love him back, no questions asked. Easy, easy, easy.

Louis can’t love properly anymore. He doesn’t know how.

He just knows how to take, how to run. How to stain a body black with his hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿

 

 

He’s tying an apron around his waist when he hears his phone buzz on the back table. It’s Liam, so Louis figures he can wait until the counter’s set up before replying. It’s not often he opens the shop but management felt he was doing well enough to handle more responsibility. More work, more money, it all adds up.

Louis smashes a beanie over his head, grey and a bit too warm for the climbing humidity of June. His fingers slide into his pocket and the polished curve of a ring meets his skin.

His phone buzzes again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿ ✿

 

 

Cold sweat has accumulated at the back of Harry’s neck. He can feel it slide down further, but the disorientation is a bit paralyzing and the wool blanket is a cocoon of warmth in the unnaturally cool living room.

He stays for a few more moments, blinking into the daytime.

When he does throw the blanket off, only to check his phone, he remembers that he didn’t fall asleep alone last night. He can still smell Louis’ antiperspirant on his skin.

Its headiness trails Harry out of the living room, into the bright white-tiled bathroom, wool blanket dropping to the floor. His head rushes with blood, head dizzy with heavy dreaming, and it’s here in the middle of the living room, half-naked, where Harry realizes he’s in love.

His hands slam on the sink, body leaning over it. It’s not the best way to find out, the passing casual thought of, _I hope he slept well, I wish he hadn’t left, I’m in love with him._

There should be a fanfare, or it should arrive on the heels of a kiss, or come bursting out of his mouth at some inopportune, strange time. He should smell like gardenias and Louis’ eyes should be sharp with the same wolfish glint they are when Harry almost knows—almost knows that Louis feels something, too.

Vomiting into the sink is not the desired result, but, it’ll have to do.

After rinsing out his mouth, swirling his tongue around his teeth and spitting a few more times for good measure, Harry chances a look in the mirror.

He’s in love. Fuck. He’s in love.

If he stares hard enough, he can almost see the fresh laugh lines, the absence of dark circles he usually displays under his eyes. He can see what Louis has done to him in the two months, and that’s the only part that’s frightening, the small amount of time he’s even known Louis—the rest of it seems to warm him from the inside out.

By the time he arrives to work, the world has carried on as per usual but it’s all completely different. There was never a time Harry’s seen things in rose-tinted glasses, and now he knows what they mean. His smile stays intact, even arguing with the same salesman he argues with every week, even when he chips off a piece of enamel he’s tried to perfect for two days.

Harry’s starting on a new piece when someone knocks at the door. He looks up to see Sarah’s flushed, round face filling the small window to the back room. His smile widens, faintly aching by now.

“Hey,” he calls, lifts the torch mask up. “Was just starting on that ring you wanted. How are you?”

“Good, good,” Sarah nods. She tucks a strand of short brown hair behind her ear. Her nose is very small which makes the rest of her features seem disproportionally large. “Are you busy? I wanted to just chat with you about the display up front.”

“Oh, sure,” Harry stands, removing his mask and gloves and leaving them to the side. He knows exactly what she’s going to ask about and since he’s still riding off this morning’s high, Harry practically walks on air behind her.

“See,” Sarah starts, grabbing for a bracelet, “I know I originally said I wanted to have just plain bands, but—I really like your sculpting work, Harry. It’s beautiful.”

“It’s alright,” Harry shrugs, half-modest and half-pleased that someone’s taken notice already of the new pieces. “S’a learning process.”

“Well,” Sarah chides, playful, “you’re a fast learner, then. Since you haven’t started on it yet, is it too much trouble to change mine to something like this?”

“No problem,” Harry says, eyes sparkling in the light. “Um, it’ll take a bit longer to carve out, but it should be ready about two days after I said the other one’d be. Like, maybe the twenty-fourth? At the latest.”

“That’s perfect, love.” Sarah claps her hands, excited. “They’re gardenias, aren’t they?” She gestures to the bracelet.

“Yeah,” Harry smiles. “I just think they’re the loveliest flower.”

“I always smell them when I walk past here,” Sarah nods.

“Yeah, they’re pretty powerful. Their scent. They mean, um,” he ducks his head, thinks of Louis and the fly-away strand of hair that’s stubborn when he just wakes up. “When you give gardenias to someone, means you think they’re lovely.”

“How sweet, Harry,” Sarah’s face lifts in the sentiment, round and lit like the moon. “It’s perfect for Delia, then. She’ll be so happy. She loves all the jewelry I’ve given her.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Harry smiles. “Means a lot.”

“It’s nothing,” Sarah brushes off. She scratches at her elbow, suddenly self-conscious. Her hand comes up to grasp the strap on her purse, sturdy on her shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it, love. Good luck on your, em, jewelry-making and all that!”

Harry laughs, renewed with some weird sense of purpose at her sincerity. “Thanks, Sarah. See you soon! Stop by anytime!” He waves a small goodbye.

“Ta! Will do!” Then she goes, flip-flops making the distinct sucking noise of hitting the heel of her foot. It follows her on the way out, a dull, tinny echo in the shop.

Harry turns back to the table. He runs his fingers over the bracelet—it’s a bit small, would be perfect for anyone with even smaller wrists.

Then a very finite emotion passes through him, welling up thick in his throat. He smiles and touches his bottom lip absent-mindedly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿✿

 

 

Louis meets Liam at their regular pub, the muddled, pleased voices gathering at the front door when they enter. The bar stools are soft as always, Louis swirling in one until Liam begs him to be less embarrassing.

There’s always a million giveaways when Liam is nervous. He sweats, the small beads of it sticking below his hairline, on his forehead. Louis can see the low lighting catch on them, the smoke from the outside wafting in when the door opens. It’s a welcome relief from the slow-building heat of the bar, but it doesn’t calm Liam, whose fingers fidget around the glass.

Even in the noise, Louis can almost hear when Liam’s tongue softens in his mouth, unhinges from the roof. The soft click of a new, difficult conversation.

“Um, you know, Lou,” Liam starts, his tone just shy of casual, “when my parents died, I really needed…someone to be there.”

Louis raises an eyebrow at him, but Liam doesn’t look his way. His stare remains focused on where his hands hold the glass that’s now sweating as much as he is.

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs.

“I keep thinking maybe,” Liam sighs, unsure of himself, “maybe you might need someone to be there.”

“Li,” Louis touches his arm. “I’m not like you. I don’t want…someone to come along and fix everything. I don’t want that.”

“Didn’t mean it that way,” Liam assures. He meets Louis’ eye and takes a small sip of his drink. “I just needed someone to be there for me and—at the time, really no one was.”

It’s sudden, the loud music, the laughing happy-faced drinkers, the darkening of the blue on the walls as it darkens outside. Louis digs a fingernail into his thigh, tries to stay on the ground.

“But I knew,” Liam sighs, wiping his mouth, “I knew no one could understand what I was going through.”

It’s true, Louis remembers, there wasn’t anyone in their town that had lost their parents the way Liam had. Suddenly. Without any warning or opportunity for goodbye. Adults tried to relate to him all the time, but old age had taken their family, natural causes—not a slippery road, a one-drink-too-many.

Louis smiles, his other hand grabbing tightly to the swell of Liam’s arm. “This isn’t just about you, is it?”

Liam returns his smile, small and unaffected. “Maybe not.”

“Well,” Louis removes his hand, takes a large sip of his rum. “S’not like I’m alone, Li. I’ve got you and Harry, don’t I?”

“Of course,” Liam pats him on the back, eyes tight with distant worry. “You know I love you, and Harry,” Liam states, stopping his sentence too abruptly at the tip of his tongue.

“But,” Louis says. He gestures for Liam to continue, a sickness he hasn’t felt in weeks coiling tight in the pit of his stomach.

“But,” his hands again circle around the glass. “Harry used to see this girl—couple years ago. And, um,” Liam scratches the back of his head. “I’m only telling you this because I want you to be careful.”

Louis nods. “Alright.”

“Her name was Luna.” Louis bites down hard on his bottom lip. It’s a beautiful name. “She was—nice. Really nice girl, yeah? But she had a lot of issues, and, I think Harry thought at the time that he could fix them.”

Louis frowns, the realization hitting him all too slowly. “Didn’t…think he was like that.”

“He’s…not. But he was like that with her, tried to make her eat all the time even when she told him it didn’t—you know, work like that.”

It doesn’t work like that. Harry’s never given him that impression, that he’s insincere in allowing Louis time to heal or move on. There’s a certain aggressiveness to people like that, they don’t leave space for the trauma to settle, for the bad things to breathe. They just want it to be as they knew it before.

Louis thinks of Harry’s gentle hands, the jewelry, the long expanse of his torso illuminated by the blue night. He taps his fingers on the glass, making tiny clinking noises. “So…what happened, then?”

“Well,” Liam shrugs. “She had to get treatment, eventually.”

“Did they break up?”

“Yeah, after she left.”

Another silence between them, this time a little less tense, more accepting of the laughter around the room to fill it. The first night Louis came here, he had felt like a stranger in his skin, like he’d never fully come back to himself.

Sitting with Liam—it seems to already have started happening without him realizing it.

Liam speaks, suddenly. “Harry is—he’s always running too fast. He trips over himself to help people.” Liam laughs and just like that Louis is laughing too, the sickness left behind for a moment. “It’s what I love about him, but it’s…also something he’s got to work on.”

Louis considers this on a low hum. “How do I know he won’t do the same to me?”

“You don’t, I guess.” Liam looks at him, eyelids dropping a bit. “That’s what I’m saying. The difference now is that if he starts to do that, you can tell him what he’s doing and he’ll know.”

Gradually, the room dims further, a romantic yellow glow sticking to the walls. It feels false. Over the slow beat of an R&B track, Louis swallows thickly. The faces of all the other people, finally, are too drowned in shadow to recognize. He twirls the white enamel ring, the one Harry had place in his pocket this afternoon, around the first knuckle of his forefinger.

“Liam,” Louis murmurs, “do you think he…cares about me?”

“I know he does,” Liam says, easy, sipping out of his glass. “I saw it right away.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿✿

 

 

The walk home is surreal.

London’s light rain is nothing short of unexpected, but it’s mystic, now, translucent against the white sky. Harry usually dreads walking home in the rain but this is the soft rain. The one that seems aware of itself.

Harry arrives at the flat in good time, knees and back a bit sore from all of the engraving work. He’s pleased at the sight of Louis sitting at the small table when the door swings open. Usually Louis would already be playing music, aware of the time Harry comes home. The quiet sends a shiver rolling through his shoulders.

When he meets Harry’s eyes, his face is placid, much too calm, and Harry can almost hear the thunder. Louis smiles, then, because he knows what he’s doing—he knows he has Harry’s heart in the palm of his hand.

“Hello, love,” he chirps. “Good day at the office?”

“Fine day,” Harry mumbles. He’s not even sure he says it, it’s so quiet. He drops his bag on the floor, toes his shoes off. “What did you do today?”

“Picked up my prescription,” Louis says. “They’re right about xanax, really does help take the edge off.”

Harry knows Louis’ nightmares have never stopped, that there’s always an electric undercurrent to his movements. A nervousness that even time might not completely clear away.

He tries to stay casual. “How many’d you take today, then?”

“Well,” Louis wipes his mouth. “I’ve been on the lower dosage for a month, had to climb a bit higher ‘cause tolerance gets fucked.” He stands suddenly, mirroring Harry’s open posture. The light hits him from the back and Harry can only see the whites of his eyes. “I took a bit more today though, because I need to talk to you.”

Harry bristles. “You don’t have to take something to talk to me, Lou.”

“I didn’t want to fuck it up,” Louis admits. Harry tries to busy his hands, which keep shaking. “I wanted to just ask you something and that’s it.”

“Well, go ahead,” Harry extends his arms, palm-up. “I’ll tell you anything.” Then, very softly, “You know that.”

Louis licks his lips. “I know, Hazza.” In his voice Harry can hear the trace of a younger Louis, one that let himself love, one that might’ve been free. But in his eyes there’s a cloudiness not accounted for and he knows what’s coming before Louis even opens his mouth.

“I wanted to—to ask about that girl of yours,” Louis exhales. “Luna.”

“Oh,” Harry frowns and draws his eyebrows together. He was expecting a different conversation. “I—um, I didn’t realize I’d mentioned her.”

“You…you didn’t, actually.” Louis moves around the table to stand in front of it, lean on its edge. He seems so calm, always unaffected, but Harry knows him better than that by now. “I had a chat with Liam today.”

“Liam,” Harry echoes, flat.

“Yeah, he—he told me about it, and I know you think it was probably a bad thing to do but he really felt it was important to tell me.”

It’s understandable, but, Harry can’t help the thought the bursts from the back of his mind. The conversation he had with Liam when Louis had first arrived. It doesn’t quite hit him yet.

“Okay,” Harry nods.

“And Liam doesn’t…he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t think I needed to hear it.”

“Of course,” Harry eases, only slightly. He bumps up against the wall, the distance between them larger now. “You must, um. You must have some questions, then? Or you have a question.”

“Yes, I—Hazza,” Louis’ eyes shining with the sound of his name in his mouth, “Don’t take this the wrong way.”

Harry shuts his eyes tightly for a moment. “Just say it, Louis.”

“What you went through with her, I can’t help feeling like…” Louis tapers off, and this is when Harry can feel his chest cave in, the space between his ribcage hollowed out. “I don’t know,” Louis says, stronger, hands gesturing nervously, “like you must have a type. That you enjoy taking care of people.”

“I do enjoy taking care of people,” Harry shrugs. “It’s not a bad thing.”

Louis presses, “But it’s more than that for you, isn’t it?”

Then, it’s as if a switch turns on.

Harry never meant to hurt anyone, especially back then, but he was too young, he didn’t know how to handle Luna’s disease and love her at the same time. He scratches bluntly down his forearm. Even the air between them, their sighs, seems delicate enough to shatter at the wrong word.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think you really—” Louis pauses before he says it, that word, the wrong word, and it stays in the air so obvious between them. “Hazza. I think you just…loved taking care of me. Loved helping me.”

Frustration coils in Harry’s chest, his eyes watering. It’s not fair, it’s not fair and he knows it, he knows exactly what Louis’ doing and he’s doing it so he doesn’t have to be the one to say it out loud.

Louis wants Harry to announce it, make it dramatic, and against every nerve-ending screaming at him to just stay quiet, it comes out of him hot and insistent anyways, “Can’t I be both? Can’t I be in love with you and like taking care of you?”

“Of course,” Louis murmurs, the warmth spinning off of him in tiny tendrils, and Harry can feel his exhaustion but there is never a moment he doesn’t want to touch Louis, all of Louis. “Of course you can. I just don’t think you understand how to.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry huffs. He digs his nails into his palm.

“Harry, I’m not,” Louis swallows. His eyes are bluer, now, in this soft twilight, and again Harry has to remind himself he can’t just close the distance and kiss it better. “I’m not going to be able to—love you like you deserve. Don’t you get that?”

Harry shakes his head, fervent, “No.”

“I can’t love you back the way you want me to.”

It’s not supposed to happen this way. Love isn’t supposed to feel like bleached bone or pesticide, it’s not supposed to suffocate, but all Harry can think is how he’d trade anything for a yesterday. A day when Louis looked him in the eye with limitless affection, and possibilities between them were endless.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Harry edges. His fists tighten, they shake the way that Louis’ shoulders do, the emotion about to break through. Harry wonders what would happen if he just let it, if the water was allowed to rise. “You’re just scared.”

“Fucking right I’m scared,” Louis yells. He covers his mouth, eyelids sliding shut. After a moment, he speaks again, “I’m not—scared of loving you, Haz.” He makes a small noise in his mouth, helpless. Harry sees for the first time all night just how fragile he is—how thin his bones are, easily broken. “I—I just can’t give you what you need.”

Louis’ eyes meet his, pleading. Harry takes a step towards him, willing to draw back their invincibility, their golden days. “What is it I need?”

“A normal person,” Louis bites his lip. “Someone you can take out for drinks, take dancing at stupid, shit clubs, get trashed and then come home and—and fuck. Just, normal shit.” Harry takes another step, shoulders squared in the remnants of anger.

“What if I don’t want normal shit, Louis? What if I just wanted you?”

“But I don’t think you do, Harry, that’s what I’m trying to…” Louis sighs, wrapping his arms around himself, “I’m trying to tell you that.” He looks down and away and Harry doesn’t know how he didn’t see it before.

There was never a chance. Not for them.

Harry stiffens against it. “You don’t have to say all this,” he shakes his head. “I just thought—I really thought you loved me,” Harry breathes, “I thought you loved me.”

“I do, Hazza,” Louis wrings his hands, “you know I do. I just can’t—you want too much, I don’t—”

“God, shut up. I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Harry shakes his head, his eyes fucking spilling over, of course, and it’s so unfair. He’d at least feel better if he stayed calm, if he was the one to stay in control, but he’s never been that person.

“Why am I the bad guy,” Louis mutters, sharply. “I’m telling you I can’t do this and you’re making me feel like shit for it.”

“Because I know you’re just scared,” Harry presses, further into Louis’ space so he’ll look at him, “you clearly still have issues you don’t want to face. I could be so good for that, Lou. I could be so good for you.”

Louis’ head snaps up, taking the little steps left to crowd into him, and there’s never been a look like that in his eyes—not once. Harry deflates, eyes widening at the intensity of his anger.

“You sound like a fucking cunt, Harry,” Louis yells. His hands reach up and shove at Harry’s shoulders. “Are you listening to yourself? Liam was right, this is a fucking headache.”

Harry watches Louis walk back to the table. “I didn’t realize the both of you had it in for me. Thanks a lot.”

“Oh please,” Louis sneers, “I came here, fucking ready to be honest, and you’re giving me shit for not wanting to date you?”

“Whatever,” Harry mumbles, hands open and outward in defeat. There’s no getting through to him, not this time. He turns sharply on his heels and pads into the kitchen. “I don’t need this.”

“Well that’s where you’re wrong, you clearly do,” Louis follows him into the kitchen. “Tell me, you fall in love with every fucked up boy that comes your way?”

Harry busies himself putting away the dishes, trying not to take the bait, because if he does then this is something they can’t come back from. “It’s not like that.”

There’s that particular inhale—Louis has this way of anticipating the ruin of others. He knows when he’s about to drop the bomb that makes the skin bubble and peel away. Very softly, he says, “Was like that with Luna, I bet.”

It hits the back of Harry’s neck, blunt. He breathes, heavy. “Shut up. You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.” _Don’t turn around. Don’t indulge him._

“You wanted to fuck me as soon as you saw how beat up I was,” Louis spits, and he might as well be spitting acid, it burns hot everywhere. “I bet that does it for you.”

Harry breaks. Chest high, he turns slowly to Louis, giving him exactly what he wants. He exhales, tears spilling over, the whole force of it shaking his body, “You’re fucked in the head, Louis, you know that? You’re so fucked.”

“No shit,” Louis’s mouth pinches, “at least I fucking know it.” Harry brushes past him, out into the living room. Louis is close on his heels, his voice coiling in the way it does when he’s close to crying. “I’ve met too many men like you, I’ve—I’ve fucked too many men like you. I can’t do this.”

“Then don’t,” Harry looks at him. In the light now he can see the fresh tear tracks on Louis’ face. Softer, “Then…don’t. Just fucking—just go.”

“I want you to apologize to me.” For the first time, Harry can see that he really is still a child, small and selfish, covered in tears and his uncontainable needs.

“I’m not gonna do that,” Harry murmurs.

“Harry,” Louis says, his voice is fragile, his face crumpling in on itself. Something runs through him, quick, makes his body quiver. When he looks at Harry again, the child is there more than ever. “God. I didn’t think I’d ever…”

Harry feels like he’s standing on the edge. “Ever what?”

“Now you know how bad I am,” Louis shrugs, head held high with a forced smile. Harry hates that smile, hates how he uses it to get what he wants—when he does get what he wants. “You see it, now, don’t you? You see why I can’t love you?”

“I can’t talk about this anymore,” Harry shakes his head, the hurt a howling animal in his chest.

“I didn’t want to be mean,” Louis pleads, but Harry can barely hear him now, “I just need you to understand.”

“I understand,” Harry assures, grabbing for his bag by the door, “You don’t love me.”

They look at each other.

Louis’ fingers keep at their trembling. His skin is buzzing, high off the adrenaline, off the anger he never quite lets himself show. The light outside haloes Louis’ head, and Harry wants to weep for the boy with blue eyes, the boy in the flower field—wants to gather him together and—save. He doesn’t.

“Fine,” Harry mutters, “I’ll go if you won’t.”

“Harry, please, please—”

The door shuts behind him, Harry walking at a brisk pace down the stairs, before any sound on the other side of the door can catch up with him.

And Harry thinks, _keep walking, just keep walking until the end of the block_ , and when he hits the end of the block he turns into the alley and vomits until he can’t hear the echo of Louis’ words, can’t still smell him everywhere, can’t think about anything but the way his throat burns at every piece of himself that spills out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿

 

 

His hands are still shaking.

It’s difficult to avoid the inevitable replay of the conversation, over and over again in his head. Louis was nervous. He knew that, and yet—

There was no reason to bring up Luna. He hasn’t thought about her in years, mostly because that’s how it goes, more so because he knows he was the one to fuck that up and after living with the regret for too long he decided he just couldn’t, anymore. Did that make him a bad person? Wanting to move past it?

He should have explained it himself, and yet—

 _Louis was right,_ he thinks, fumbling for the key to the shop. It’s just past nine at night, the other boutiques closing around him. Lately a soft pretzel vendor has camped around the complex and it almost always smells like butter and salt.

He just doesn’t understand how quickly the conversation derailed. He’d never meant to make Louis feel pressured into loving him, that’s not how he wanted it to happen. But maybe he has no control over how it happens.

Harry approaches the display table, fingers gently touching the edges of the gardenias. _You’re so lovely._

“Lou,” Harry murmurs.

There was supposed to be some big party. Harry would sell out of the summer collection and he’d throw a big party, and Louis would come and he’d tuck a flower in his hair and give him the bracelet. His fingers run over the flowers, running onto the one next to it, the white band, forefinger tracing the engraving. He’d worked until the heat made his face red and splotchy, his eyes out of focus.

For the man who suffers and still dreams.

“Fuck,” Harry whispers, eyes filling with fresh tears. He bites his lip to stop them but it doesn’t work quick enough.

He pockets the bracelets and wipes at his face. Without another glance back at the shop, he flips off the lights and locks the door behind him.

It’s night now. He walks in the opposite direction of home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿ ✿

 

 

Liam opens the door much too softly. It’s a small flat and the sound travels easily. Louis spins around to face him, cigarette between his fingers. He knows he looks like he’s been through hell, like he’s fallen from heaven and hit the earth.

Despite this, Liam doesn’t push any pretense, thank _fuck_.

“How did it go,” he asks, cheery, planting two bottles of wine on the table.

“About as awful as you said,” Louis says, fast. The xanax made him feel much better, though, at least until Harry went haywire. “I don’t even know what happened,” he announces, his voice unnecessarily loud.

“It’s a sore subject,” Liam says, unaffected. “Probably couldn’t have gone any other way.”

“Now you fucking tell me,” Louis prattles. He rubs a hand down the side of his face, “I wouldn’t have even brought it up if I knew there’s no choice in it.” He takes a long drag off the cigarette, watches the cherry light. When he exhales, the smoke gets caught up in his eye and it stings.

“What did he say?”

“He just—” Louis inhales. Smoke billows out of his mouth. “He said the weirdest shit. It was like he snapped.”

“So, what did he say?” Liam looks around. “D’you have a bottle opener around here?”

“First drawer in the kitchen,” Louis waves with his hand. He shakes his head. “He told me he could be good for me. It reminded me—” A shiver rolls up the back of his spine. “It reminded me of what Arnaud used to say to me.”

Liam reappears with the bottle opener, uncorking the bottle of wine slowly. He seems to be waiting for Louis to keep going, for him to act like what just happened is affecting him, but he doesn’t feel anything.

“Arnaud used to say he was good for me, too. That we were good for each other, really, but mostly that—it was good I had him around.” Louis looks out the window. “I just don’t know how it went wrong.” The sick wells up to the back of his mouth, and Louis shuts his eyes on a sharp inhale.

Traffic outside is loud, jarring, the constant honking starting to embed itself in Louis’ skin like shrapnel. But all of it—the press of the car horn, the way the wind gets caught around the window—it’s better than the sound of Harry’s voice, the red flush to his face when he thought Louis didn’t love him and it filled the room.

“Did you tell him you just weren’t ready?”

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs. “He didn’t take it well.”

“Lou, he…” Liam bites his lip. He takes a swig of the wine, offers it to Louis—but Louis waves it away. “He loves you. He probably thought if he fought for you that you’d change your mind, or something.”

“Li,” the sadness hanging over his shoulders, dripping onto the floor, “I don’t know what to do.” Louis caves into himself, and he hears Liam approach, his arms coming to circle around his neck. It’s then that the tears come, whether he wants them to or not.

“Louis,” Liam breathes into his shoulder. “You never deserved what Arnaud did to you. Not for a second.” He pulls back to look at him, both of their eyes reflecting each other. His hands rest on top of his shoulders. “And—out of anyone in the world, I’d pick Harry for you a million times over.”

“Harry,” Louis dismisses his name, wipes his nose onto his sleeve. Then, after a moment, “I’m in love with him.”

“I know.”

“I wish that was enough.”

That familiar grey passes over the outside. Louis trembles in the afternoon light, wishing that it would come to swallow everything whole.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿

 

_The field is barren of flowers, grey-toned. It's not what it was. Harry stands in front of him, sliding one of the white enamel rings onto his forefinger._

_Louis looks at him. "I love you, you know," he tells him, because this is a dream and this is okay here. Harry smiles._

_They’re on their backs in a parking lot. The clouds move quickly and the sky is the same blue as his mother’s eyes._

_Louis turns to Harry. “Where are we now?”_

_“This is where I go when I feel safe,” Harry says, smiling and young like in pictures he’s seen off Liam’s phone. His lips are candy-pink, face fresh with sunlight._

_“Why this place?”_

_Louis looks up to Harry, who is bent over a dead rabbit on the pavement. It’s an old death, its blood already dried in a ring around its head._

_“I saw this when I was a kid,” Harry tells him, eyes bright. “I found out that day that things die.”_

_“That makes you feel safe?”_

_“No,” Harry admits, now dressed the same way he was when Louis first met him. “It’s safe because you’re here.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿

 

 

A loud knock wakes Louis from his sleep.

He’d only wanted a brief nap, something to dampen the hurt, but when he lifts his head from the couch now he sees it’s dark outside. He thinks of his dream, the last remnants of Harry's smile fading from memory. There’s a hard rain that hits the window, the same thud as though the drops were birds. Disoriented, Louis startles again at a second knock, a softer one. Louis knows who it is by this alone.

His feet hit the cold floor, the feeling carrying him to the door. It creaks as it opens to Harry’s rain-soaked facade, his lips a deeper pink than he’s ever seen them. The feeling spirals downwards, from the core of his throat to his hands, and Louis looks at Harry and all he knows is that he loves him.

“Harry,” Louis breathes.

“Louis,” Harry responds, just as breathless, eyes wide. “Hi.”

“Hi. You’re soaked.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Got caught in the rain.”

There’s a strange silence. Still the rain goes, only now Louis can hear the both of them breathing. He should be angry, or the frustration of the earlier conversation should linger but it doesn’t. It won’t.

Harry asks, eyes flicking over Louis’ shoulder, “Can I—come in?”

“Yeah,” Louis snaps back to the moment, standing aside to let Harry through. “D’you need a towel? I can go get one,” Louis points towards the bathroom.

“No,” Harry shakes his head. He looks freshly drowned, hair dripping onto the floor. “It’s alright. I, um. Louis, I’m sorry.” He moves closer, his eyes wild in their characteristic way, and Louis holds up a hand to stop the deluge. At Harry’s confusion, Louis smiles.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. His fingers reach for Harry’s hip. “S’just…I don’t want you to be in the dark for much longer.” Louis skims his fingers up onto the left laurel, the chill of Harry’s skin sending a shiver through his shoulders.

Harry’s heart gives a hard thud. He watches him closely. “Alright.”

“I’m in love with you,” Louis says, so simple despite everything. “And I’m sorry. For what I said. I’m sorry you went even a single second thinking I don’t love you.”

“Louis,” Harry chokes, his large hands coming up to frame Louis’ face, and he doesn’t know why he ever doubted it before, how he couldn’t recognize the safety that Harry gives him just in touching alone.

“I never wanted you to see how ugly I am,” Louis cries, eyes trained on Harry’s. “I thought it would make it easier but it just made it so much harder.”

“I could never,” Harry sucks in a breath, “I could never stop loving you for anything.”

“I love you too much, Hazza,” Louis fingers dig into the swell of Harry’s hips, Harry hissing out a quiet breath. “God, I’m—I’m so in love with you.”

“Louis,” Harry rushes into him, all at once, that familiar scent of gardenias making Louis feel drunk, woozy with love. He kisses above his eyebrows, Louis whimpering into the touch. “Louis, you know that—you know I feel the same.”

“Please,” Louis whispers, Harry kissing down the slope of his nose, just above his upper lip. Harry licks across it, just briefly, parting Louis’ mouth open. “Hazza, please tell me.”

Harry draws back, his mouth slack. This is the moment Louis dreams about—

It’s not a memory, but a feeling. The way Harry looks at him in his dreams, the copper-flecked gaze, and the haze to everything that keeps him grounded. But dreams are supposed to feel like that, supposed to feel unreal in a way that aches.

Louis presses closer, his hips against Harry’s. He watches Harry's pink mouth, then feels his hands slide off his face. Harry digs a hand into his pocket, and in just a few moments, before Louis can step out of the dream, Harry’s slid two bracelets on his wrist.

He knows them immediately, lifting his hand to see the white-enamel band, the one with the engraving from _Fleurs du Mal_ —the other, the string of carved, polished bone. Gardenias. Louis touches them, reverently.

Harry’s hands wrap around Louis’ waist, almost enveloping him entirely. When he speaks, it’s as soft as the rest of him, “I’m in love with you. I knew it the minute I saw you.” Then he smiles. “I was yours. Completely.”

“This whole time,” Louis murmurs. He lets his hands wind behind Harry’s neck, the bracelets clinking together.

“Only yours,” Harry breathes, his eyes so close Louis can only see the dark swirl to his pupil, the rain still insistent against the window. The sweetness to his breath. Harry kisses the corner of Louis’ mouth, and it’s intoxicating, and Louis waits for it—he waits for a memory to come crashing between them, for Arnaud to take the last happiness away from him.

He doesn’t come, and Louis turns his head to say into Harry’s mouth, “Mine.”

Harry whimpers against him, his mouth parting to take the most of Louis in as he can. His hands are tight on Louis’ hips, and he loves it, feeling like every inch of him begins and ends over the expanse of Harry’s skin. Their hips knock together, clumsy, lips catching together quick enough to bump teeth.

Louis licks into Harry’s mouth, moaning slight when Harry’s tongue meets his own. They part to breathe, just for a second, and Louis untangles his hands from behind Harry’s head. Harry smiles, Louis pushing him backwards until his back hits the wall.

“Is this okay,” Harry exhales, shaky, and Louis feels every part of him burning with how badly he wants to keep Harry like this—breathless, pliable beneath him.

“It’s okay,” Louis moves into him, hands on his jaw, kissing hard. “It’s all okay,” he murmurs. Harry swallows it. They breathe out through their noses, the sharp inhales on every kiss that goes deeper starting to travel straight to his cock. He feels heavy where their hips line up, Harry canting up in small bursts.

Harry bites down on his lip, not hard enough. But his hands slide down to the dip in Louis’ back, kneading the skin, pulling them as close as possible. Louis groans, breaking off of Harry’s mouth. His hands tighten in Harry’s hair, pushing his hips against Harry’s, their cocks pressing together through their clothes.

“Louis,” Harry moans, breathing into his mouth, “wanna get my hands on you.”

“I,” Louis keens, unable to stop pushing into Harry’s hips, the heat of him traveling up his spine. He feels so good like this, everywhere, his fingers sliding underneath Louis’ sweatpants, in between Louis’ arse.

It burns him up alive in the ways he’s always wanted.

“Please,” Louis kisses into his neck, licking and sucking at where it meets his jaw. “I want you to,” he says. Louis pulls hard, sharp at a curl at the back of Harry’s neck and he moans.

Then Harry juts his head down, his eyes black in the light. Louis can see the traces of his teeth around his mouth, the flush to his chest. He grabs hold of Louis with both hands, flipping them around until Louis’ back meets the wall and Harry makes quick work of biting at his neck.

His hand remains hard on Louis’ hip, to keep him down. Louis screws his eyes shut, small sounds lilting out when Harry sucks a bit too deeply, the skin sensitive. He feels Harry’s hand slide down his stomach and his hips jerk up, eager for any contact.

When Harry pauses at the waistband, Louis' cock already peaking out, Louis wrenches Harry away from his neck, looks at him with the hooded eyelid and swollen lip. They watch each other as Harry dips his hand inside and finally—finally, wraps his fingers around Louis’ cock.

Louis moans, softly, but Harry kisses him quiet. Their mouths open wide to each other, tongues sliding together, Harry’s hand hot and insistent. Louis’ overwhelmed with it, the need to touch him, and it’s only a few minutes, the sounds of Harry’s hand on his wet cock growing louder, the knock of the bracelets, until Louis unbuttons Harry’s jeans and grabs hold of him.

Harry gasps against him, Louis tightening his grip and jerking him off quickly. Harry slows his pace, lets Louis fuck up into his hand that almost completely covers him, and it’s perfect, just like this—

The smell of Harry everywhere, both of them too overwhelmed to keep kissing. Their breath turns hot and Louis can feel it build up from the backs of his knees, the cold shiver that’s muscle-deep and relentless. “Harry,” he murmurs, just to hear it this way, amongst the throaty moans Harry keeps dropping on his tongue.

“Fuck, Lou,” Harry kisses him, “I love you, I’m—”

Louis wants it, feels the swell of him, the precome slicking down from the head. He rubs his fingers over it and Harry shudders into him, “Please.”

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs, his nose buried in the crook of Harry’s neck, “I got you, love. I’ve got you.” He tightens his hand further, dragging it slow to the base of Harry’s cock and back up, and Harry pushes his hips into the touch, Louis biting his lip to hold off from coming.

Then Harry picks up his movement, sudden, his fingers tightening at the head. Louis pants, his other hand pressing Harry into him, “Fuck, oh, god.”

“Come on, Lou,” Harry bites at his shoulder, his hand moving too fast for Louis to keep up, and then he’s coming, spilling over Harry’s hands. He rolls his hips through it, the rush prickling beneath his eyes, at his stomach, his touch on Harry’s cock slowing through his own orgasm.

Harry kisses beneath his ear, and Louis finishes Harry off with a few rough jerks, Harry coming with a long moan that parts his mouth open wide and draws his eyebrows together. Louis looks at him, flushed everywhere, and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, finds it’s as sweet as he thought it would be. Harry laughs a little, still touching Louis' cock gently before pulling off. 

Louis looks at his hand in the light. He licks his palm, peering up at Harry through his eyelashes. Harry exhales out a small tuft of air when Louis brings his hand up to his mouth.

“So pretty,” Louis whispers, sucking Harry’s come off his fingers.

Dazed, Harry smiles at him and kisses him right away, licking it out of his mouth. Louis hums against his lips, swirls his tongue around his teeth after he pulls off.

Then he remembers.

“Do you eat a lot of candy,” Louis asks, playful, tilts his head at him.

“Candy?” Harry blinks. “Yeah, I eat these caramels from the shop nextdoor. I don’t even really like them but they always give them to me for free and,” Harry fumbles with the waistband of Louis’ sweatpants, “I feel bad if I don’t eat them.”

Louis’ laugh knocks out of him, boneless and warm from the orgasm, Harry’s eyes sheepish and lovely.

Harry wipes him clean with a small dish towel, his skin only a little red where Harry’s rubbed the dried come away. In the mirror, Louis can see the start of a particularly painful-looking bite, and it thrills him beyond anything.

This is the part Louis wondered about, if he'd never be able to be touched again without flinching, without something dragging him back to that night. He'll never be able to know when the haunt comes back, but, that doesn't mean he stops living.

They share a cigarette by the windowsill, the rest of the world quiet and irrelevant.

Louis breaks their silence with a small, "I am sorry, you know."

It should be enough, the easy smiles and the aftermath of a couple kisses to wash down the bitterness of their conversation. It's not. It was just the first of many conversations Louis isn't entirely sure how to have. Harry barely moves where he sits on the floor, eyes lidded. When he speaks, it's a cautious, "For what?"

"For looking for an excuse to hurt you." 

"S'alright," Harry shrugs. He bunches up his mouth around the cigarette. "I know why you did it," Harry exhales a billow of smoke. "I shouldn't have let it get to me so easily."

He hands the cigarette back to Louis and the heat begins to lick at his fingertips. "Haz, I don't want it to go like this every time. You should be—mad, when you're mad, yeah?"

"I can still be mad and understand you, Lou," Harry touches him with his foot.

"Maybe," Louis ashes the cigarette.

"Just don't blame yourself," Harry moves all of a sudden to hook his leg between Louis', so that they're intertwined and too close to avoid eye contact. "Promise you won't blame yourself."

"Yeah," Louis swallows. "Okay."

"Okay," Harry knocks his forehead onto Louis' shoulder.

"I just didn't know how else to tell you, Haz. About what being with me means."

"You can tell me now."

Louis fumbles for the cigarette pack, hands shaking. "Sometimes—it'll be okay like today. Then sometimes I won't want you to touch me." The lighter clicks, the cigarette lit between his fingers. "I'll try and find more ways to hurt you."

"I might do the same," Harry says. 

"And you still want this?" Louis frowns, that familiar tremor runs through his voice always so embarrassing and unavoidable.

Harry's hand covers his own completely. "For as long as it stays."

It’s the two of them on the floor, and kisses that taste like caramels, and the absence of memory’s gnarled, ashen fingers.

Louis has a passing thought—this is how it must feel to come back a war hero, this is how it must feel to walk into heaven, all gold and gilded laughter.

They’re in love. They’re in love, and they’ve won.

 

 

   

 

 

✿

 

 

 

London stays grey, but little else retains the same static.

Harry fixes Louis’ collar and sends him off to the district center, where his bright-eyed and sharp-tongued students, aged fifty and up, await his instruction. It’s the most juvenile type of fun he’s allowed himself lately—aside from dancing to Michael Jackson with Liam when they close the juice shop together.

Then there’s Harry.

In the crook of his elbow, in the imprint the enamel ring leaves when he takes it off for the night. Sometimes he slides it onto his fourth finger and sees how it feels there.

In another few months, he’ll be able to start waning off of the anti-anxiety medication, and the visits he makes to Anna inside the white office will become less frequent. And Louis knows love doesn’t fix, or save on its own. That there are things the gentle focus of Harry’s eyes can’t help, even if he wants them to.

He’s gotten better on his own—but it’s not just thanks to him, not completely. Liam’s consistence keeps him out of trouble. Harry’s love keeps him out of his head.

So love was always this: a risk worth taking, even when the skin gets stained, or the flower fields burn. But it’s not always this.

Sometimes—it just needs to be gentle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿

 

 

_“Louis,” his mother calls, “we’re leaving!”_

_It’s the middle of summer, high noon, the sun placed perfectly in the sky. Louis could draw a pyramid and have the sun as the top, the golden tip._

_“Just a minute,” he calls back._

_There’s a boy playing in the field far away. Louis can see him from here, spinning around in a circle, his laughter a tinny echo in the grass. Louis thinks about calling out to him, but his mother calls again._

_Then the boy is beside him, and they’re on their backs in a small room. Louis recognizes it as his bedroom in St. Germain, but also the one in Hyde Park, their images blurred together._

_Harry is over him, hair falling to frame his face. “Wake up, Lou. You should wake up.”_

_“I want to stay here,” Louis says, but it’s a lie, and he doesn’t know why he says it._

_“Just wake up,” Harry smiles, “I promise it’s better there.”_

_They’re standing in the flower field, Louis’ bracelets tinkling like a wind chime each time he moves, closer to Harry to kiss him. He kisses his mouth, plain and sunny. It’s the middle of summer, late afternoon._

_“Look at you,” Harry laughs, eyes wild with love, “Look at us.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

✿

 

 

“Lou.”

Louis blinks, eyelashes fluttering. They’re lying down, pressed close on Louis’ futon. It’s still late afternoon. He must’ve fallen asleep for only a few moments. Harry is sleepy-eyed, but smiling at him, leaned up on an elbow.

“What is it, darling,” Louis grins, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye.

“I wanted to tell you something,” Harry says.

“Couldn’t it have waited another hour,” Louis whines, yawning at the end of his sentence. Harry grabs his arm lightly and pulls him into a hug, Louis turning his head to rest on the hill of Harry’s shoulder. He could fall asleep again, surrounded by him like this.

“No jokes,” Harry murmurs. “I wanted to tell you that—you couldn’t just be the angel,” Harry’s hands smooth across his back, the bare skin, “‘cause then you wouldn’t suffer.”

Louis mumbles, eyes watering, “Isn’t that the point of it all?”

“Hush,” Harry kisses his neck. “No, because that’s not how it works. There’s always some bit of suffering, but…” He pulls Louis away from his shoulder, a hiding place, and he has that kindness that mollifies the eye. Louis presses his lips together, but the tears come on their own.

“You don’t have to be one or the other,” Harry holds him there. “You can be both, Lou. You are both.”

“Hazza,” Louis breathes, Harry’s fingers wiping at the corners of his eyes. They stay looking at each other, hands skimming across skin, laid bare in the light. “Thank you,” Louis says.

“Thank you for letting me in,” Harry bumps his nose to Louis’, his eyes sliding shut easily. It seems precious, and rare, the suspension of their sighs as they kiss. For now, there’s nowhere to be and nowhere for anyone to hide.

There on the bed, their love too big in the small apartment, they kiss until either of them can’t feel their mouths.


End file.
